Our Hearts Beat in Reverse
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] He completed all the lifeguard courses before finals, took all the requisite modules and received his two-year certification after taking first aid classes, professional-level CPR and AED training. That's how he'd met one Blaine Devon Anderson.
1. Chapter 1

**author's notes:** written for seblaineaffairs' Spring Fling challenge. title taken from Rat-A-Tat by Fall Out Boy.

.

 **& Our Hearts Beat In Reverse**

part one

.

 _We watched the sun set,_

 _and we woke to the sunrise;_

 _what's between was ours._

—Tyler Knott Gregson

.

Summer spread hot and heavy over the entire park, cabins left abandoned in favor of outdoor activities like hiking, rock-climbing, swimming... Jetties bobbed up and down in the water, all run empty with every available boat out on the water, wood cracking from the heat. On the other side of the lake a broad beach pushed back the tree line, providing the space and opportunity for campers and locals to swim and work on their tans.

This is where Sebastian had determined to pass his summer, bestowing his exceptional aquatic skills upon those in need.

It's not that he needed the money; his trust fund had been his primary source of income for the past few years and continued to provide ample coverage on all his expenses, but since his father checked that account on a semi-regular basis - well, as adept as he'd gotten at lying, his father didn't need to know about everything he spent his money on.

He completed all the lifeguard courses before finals, took all the requisite modules and received his two-year certification after taking first aid classes, professional-level CPR and AED training.

That's how he'd met one Blaine Devon Anderson.

Recertifying for all the lifeguard courses himself, Blaine had been pointed out to be him from afar by one of the instructors, because they'd be working the same shifts at the lake.

Blaine, a few inches shorter than him, seemed like an all-round American sweetheart, a smile at the ready for everyone, lent a helping hand when necessary, _great_ with kids, and wasn't too hard on the eyes either. He quickly learned more about Blaine Anderson Googling one rainy Sunday afternoon; as upstanding citizen Blaine was a pillar of the community, member of several societies and advocate for many charities all over Westerville, Ohio, the town that most often referred to Blaine as _the mayor's son_.

Blaine was the proverbial goody-two-shoes, out to save the world, with a trip in his step and an inspirational word for every single one of his father's constituents.

He knew this type of boy.

The jury was still out on whether or not he and Blaine would get along.

.

Somehow he gets lucky and catches the afternoon shifts – Kitty and Quinn, two girls he met at training, and some blond guy whose name he failed to learn, drew the short straw and ended up with the morning shift, while he and Blaine got stuck with Sugar Motta, the daughter of one of his father's old clients. A third group came in over the weekends, but he never met any of them. Covering the afternoon shift meant his mornings remained open for other things, like sleeping off a buzz, or actual productive things like read or boss workers around at his parents' house, which had been undergoing renovations for the past few months.

A cabin at the entrance to the beach was reserved for the lifeguards, one small square room with a row of six lockers where they could keep their things and change clothes, a shower behind the cabin with a barely-there privacy curtain in case they needed it, and a plastic picnic table out in front that could seat four, and got too hot to sit on when the afternoon sun caught it.

The uniforms were, arguably, the one upside to the whole setup; bright red swim shorts made to order, and if they so chose, a white shirt with the logo of the camp printed on it. After an entire year of wearing the Dalton Academy uniform, however, a white long-sleeved shirt under a warm blue blazer with red piping _and a tie_ , he needed to work on his tan. So stepping out on his first day, the beach filled with screaming children and their parents, exhausted grandparents, and hormone-crazed teenagers, he braves the stinging heat with his pale skin, bare feet, and a stylish new pair of sunglasses.

"You should probably invest in some flip-flops," a voice sounds behind him.

He frowns. Strange first words.

"Excuse me?" he asks and turns in the same breath, coming face to face with none other than Blaine Anderson, his hazel eyes wide and bright, accompanied by a smile that could turn the foulest of moods. Sadly, Blaine's also wearing the aforementioned shirt that complemented the uniform.

"Flip-flops." Blaine points at his own feet, adorned with red flip-flops that match his shorts, the Y-shaped strap snug between his big and second toe. "They're not practical, but they don't teach you about stray toys in training. It's like stepping on a Lego, but with sand in the mix. You want to avoid those."

"Alright. Thanks."

"It's Sebastian, right?" Blaine asks, lingering at his side.

He takes special note that Blaine wears the short version of the swim shorts, the fabric ending several inches above the knee, while he'd opted for longer ones himself – he has skinny legs; _a dancer's legs_ his mother insisted, but he often felt self-conscious about them.

He holds out a hand. "Sebastian Smythe."

"Blaine Anderson," Blaine offers, and shakes his hand. "Don't hesitate to ask me any questions. I've been doing this for three years, so I know the ropes."

He quickly does the math in his head – the program they entered allowed candidates that were fifteen or older, but that could still make Blaine older than him. He could be home from college.

"You're eighteen?" he asks, intentionally overshooting.

"I will be in September."

He watches Blaine swagger off toward one of the two lifeguard chairs on the beach, his shorts stretching enticingly around his perky ass, and one of his eyebrows rises involuntarily. Over the years he's done a lot of stupid things for boys with asses like those, but he gave up on wholesome boys out to please their fathers – their personalities went hand in hand with identity crises and some level of closeted-ness, and he wasn't interested in being anyone's secret fuck in between family obligations and charity fundraisers again.

"Heyyy, Sebastian," a raspy voice grates behind him, followed by a prompt slap to his ass.

He jumps and whirls around, greeted by Sugar Motta's big smile, who has the extraordinary ability to creep up on people – for some reason she set her eyes on him some time ago, even though she knew he was gay, but that never stopped her from catching him unaware.

Sugar pushes into his personal space and taps her fingers against his abdomen. "You want to lather up those pecs, cutie." She winks and shimmies a bottle of sunscreen into one of his pockets, her hand lingering long enough to make him cringe a step back. "Wouldn't want you to get sunburnt on your first day."

She saunters away before he can tell her off, and he's left uncomfortable and violated – there were girls who could hold his interest, who he could talk to and have fun with in a purely amicable way, but there were other girls who acted like they could turn him straight, make him see the appeal of their voluptuous curves both up-top and down-under; the kind of girls who chilled him to the bone. Even if Sugar meant no harm, that wasn't the kind of attention he enjoyed.

Maybe that's why he gives his eyes leave to find Blaine again and why he makes his way over.

Blaine catches him off guard by speaking first. "Need a hand with that?" he asks, motioning toward the tube of sunscreen sticking out of his pocket.

He cracks a smile, "Sure", and turns around to give Blaine access to his back.

Blaine squirts some of the cream onto the back of his neck, his fingers soon working the moisture into his skin, small circular movements that don't leave a single patch of his skin unattended, and he relaxes under Blaine's careful gentle care.

"You're good at this, killer."

Blaine breathes a smile. "You really can't afford sunburn on your first day."

 _Wholesome_ – the word spins around his self-respect as he stares out over the lake. His life doesn't revolve around chasing relationships or boys with great abs, least of all a mayor's son who lives by every rule his parents set and provides an example to others; he can't stand those holier-than-thou attitudes from some of his fellow preppies at Dalton either, so he prefers avoiding it in other everyday interactions. Too bad though; Blaine could've been an exciting summer fling.

"There you go."

Blaine finishes with a final touch to his hip.

"Thanks," he says, and leaves before Blaine can wish him a _jolly good day_ , or something similarly joyful.

Nothing much happens during his first shift. Six hours pass routinely; Blaine takes two hours in the lifeguard chair while Sugar walks up and down the waterline, and he swims back and forth between the shore and the swim platforms drifting stagnant in the water.

"Good form, Sebastian." Sugar winks when she takes her seat in the lifeguard chair, all of them rotating positions; the only reason he smiles is because he sees Blaine looking their way, lovingly shaking his head, clearly accustomed to Sugar's coquetry.

By the time he takes his turn in the chair the crowd has thinned out significantly, most of the families gone home for dinner and elaborate bath time rituals, though some of the teenagers straggle on the beach, trying to hide the bottles of liquor they finally feel safe enough to pull out. Blaine puts a stop to that with a polite, "Not on my watch, guys. Put it away or take it somewhere else, okay?"

Much to his surprise the group complies immediately.

 _Saint Anderson_ , he thinks, or some kind of Captain America type superhero, fighting juvenile delinquency with a wink and a smile, and the power of _positive! thinking!_ It's amusing to watch, and entertaining the thought of getting his hands all over Blaine's ass won't do any harm; it might even help him get through a lot of sleepless nights back at his parents' house. It felt weird being home full-time after all his months at school, where he often stayed over the weekend; as much as his mom liked having him back for the summer, he preferred the freedom private school –ironically– offered.

"He's single, you know," Sugar's voice sounds from below as she wraps herself around one of the legs of the chair, fresh out of the water – their shift's coming to a close and the sun's dipped behind the tree line, quickly bathing the beach in twilight, if not for the remaining light refracting off the water and a series of lanterns guiding pathways into the forest.

He climbs down the chair. "He's not my type."

Sugar smiles knowingly. " _Liar_."

.

On his second day he comes home to find his mom halfway down the stairs in the hallway, studiously inspecting the construction workers' progress on the plastering; she did this every night, because a day yelling at them was useless if she couldn't yell at them the next day over something they missed.

"How was your first day, honey?"

After six hours in the blistering sun, he's too tired to correct his mother's misassumption.

"Fine, mom."

Though, arguably, he may have underestimated what it took to be a lifeguard. Sugar had been right to make him use sunscreen, and Blaine hadn't been wrong about the flip-flops; he'd bought a pair on his way home. He'd been in the water for most of his life, but this proved next level.

His mom turns, her green eyes identical to his. "Meet any cute boys?" she asks, which she'd label as her way of being _hip to his life_ , but it's really an attempt at getting to know him again. According to all the parenting books she subscribes to, teenagers are tough to fathom, and showing an interest in their day-to-day activities will help establish a new layer of trust.

"Yeah, actually, I did." He crosses his arms over his chest. "5'8". Hazel eyes. Great ass. He might be the love of my life."

"And does my future son-in-law have a name?"

He huffs a laugh, caught off guard by how easy it is to slip back into a scenario where he's the little boy tucked tight beneath the bed covers at night telling his mom everything about his day.

Maybe the books were right.

"Blaine."

.

Temperatures peak high and the beach fills up with big crowds every single day, the weather far too tempting to keep people locked inside. Between the six of them they have their work cut out, but other than some fatigued swimmers and a few cuts that need treating the week passes without incident.

Friday afternoon rain starts halfway into their shift, emptying the beach within twenty minutes and forcing them back to their assigned hut for shelter.

Blaine and Sugar play cards – apparently they know this drill – while he watches the beach for stragglers under the shelter of a tiny canopy. They've all been forced into their custom-made red hoodies for warmth, which turn out to be deceptively comfortable, and as the rain falls, the fresh crisp air comes as a welcome relief.

Exhausting though the week has been it's turned out strangely rewarding too – he'd gone back and forth on getting a summer job for some time, weighing the idea of having as much freedom as he wanted against the reality of what he might do with that freedom, and he hadn't put it past him to sleep in late, play video games all day, and go back to bed, all under the prying eyes of his mom. This job keeps him on his toes, keeps him focused, and –like Dalton– didn't tolerate any slackers. He's not sure slacking is in his genes.

As soon as the rain stops Sugar announces she's heading home, making it a point to wink at him, before he starts scouring the beach for stray toys or any other items for the lost-and-found.

"Smythe!"

The camp manager's shrill voice leaves tiny pinpricks at the back of his neck.

"Get these chairs outta here 'fore they rust into place!"

April Rhodes, camp director, appeared harmless and tiny, but the woman hulked out every time she shouted across a room, or a field, or a beach in this case, which happened more often than one would think. Her voice _carried_ , and she never missed an opportunity to use it.

He takes his time making his way back to the cabin, finding Blaine adding gel to his hair inside, ducking to peer into a tiny mirror nailed to the wall. The boy was handsome, he had to give him that; good genes and exceptional personal grooming made Blaine quite the catch, and he can't figure out how he remained single – there were plenty of rich eligible bachelors out there who'd be lucky to snare an Anderson.

"Boss wants us to move the chairs in case it rains tonight."

Blaine follows him outside and helps him roll the lifeguard chairs to the other side of the beach, where they chain them to rings in the ground, though he has no idea who in their right minds would steal the things.

He could go home, but given the unexpected length of this first week tonight entailed nothing more but another evening home alone; take-away dinner and a rental from the local DVD store. As far as Friday nights went it wasn't the worst-case scenario, but the house smelled of plaster and the air-conditioning was out; the beach was as good a place as any to kick back.

He sits down on top of the picnic table, watching the sun fade into a muddy orange line on the horizon, and lights a joint. It's not something he indulged in on a daily basis, but he enjoyed how the weed severed ties to any stress and blurred the edges of his perception – even if the sensations were drug induced he liked that suddenly nothing mattered, he didn't have any obligations, and wasn't beholden to anyone.

"So what's your story?" he asks, catching Blaine on his way out.

If at all possible, the red hoodie looks even more comfortable on Blaine, and all he can think about is curling up against his chest, breathing in cologne and sweat and sun-kissed skin, sneak his hands underneath the jersey knit cotton and fall asleep with his arms around the boy on the cusp of adulthood.

"My story?"

He takes a long drag from the cigarette. "You're the mayor's son, right?"

"That's not my story." Blaine stills, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and as his eyes darken, he fears he royally fucked up. People like Blaine don't need their backgrounds pointed out, and maybe Blaine doesn't like how his reputation or his father's title precedes him in social interactions.

Blaine settles down on the table next to him, daintily plucking the joint from between his index and middle finger.

He blinks a few times, in case he got so blazed he started hallucinating, but Blaine doesn't disappear into thin air. Blaine Devon Anderson, son of Mayor Westerville, savior of the universe, defender of the faith and all creatures big and small, smoked pot?

"Why did you take this job?" Blaine asks, inhaling deeply, savoring the burn in his lungs before expelling the smoke again, his breath clouds of vapor that curl into the dark like soft caresses or bodies writhing in clean white sheets.

"Needed to get out of the house." He swallows hard, eyes tracing the bob of Blaine's throat and his lips puckering around the butt of the joint. "Needed some extra cash. Needed a tan. And I'm a really good swimmer."

Blaine nods. "You are."

"My mom was one of those new-age housewives?" he says, the weed loosening his lips – he leans back on his hands, crosses his legs at the ankles. "She wanted to give birth in the living room in one of those kiddie pools. Thankfully, I decided otherwise, and showed up early."

"You were cocky even in the womb."

He snorts, demanding back his cigarette. "Anyway, she signed me up for swimming lessons when I was six months old."

"And now?" Blaine asks, staring at him sideways.

His eyes glow golden in the fast fading daylight.

"You used the past tense."

"I guess my dad became a hotshot lawyer or something." He shrugs. "Mom followed suit. Dressed the part, looked the part, _etcetera_."

There's more to the story than that, like his father's career blooming into a position as State's Attorney, which even he considers a big deal, but he's steadily putting the overlarge portion of his brain cells to sleep, and it's as concise a summary as he can manage.

He struggles upright, stubbing out the joint against the side of the table. "Why did you? Take the job."

Blaine falls silent and stares at him, a few inches separating them, and his lips tingle at the thought that if he leaned in Blaine wouldn't move; he'd taste like the raspberries processed into his hair gel, sugar-coated donuts and a hint of sea salt, even if that didn't make any sense. His tongue would run along the inside of Blaine's upper lip and the shorter would sigh into his mouth, relax into his body, edges of them evanescing until they were a mess of comfy sweaters and loose-lipped confessions.

"My parents hate the water," Blaine says.

He blinks, but doesn't sober up, though any pretense between them falls away and darkness fully sets in, the sun setting along with any hope of where this night might've ended. Yet a different kind of promise saturates the air, molecules and atoms combusting. Blaine's not the boy he made him out to be.

Blaine gets up. "Goodnight, Sebastian."

His tongue feels too big for his mouth. "Night."

.

That Saturday he wakes up around eleven, the house blissfully quiet and free of any unwanted strangers. Try as she might, once the unions threatened to get involved his mother backed off trying to keep construction going over the weekend. She was off getting her hair or nails done, maybe both, while his father took his buddies golfing.

His head's hazy with pleasant memories from last night, of a boy a little more recognizable, and as his hand slips back underneath the sheets, past the waistband of his boxers, he remembers full lips and a lazy smile, cigarette smoke billowing like a secret act between two willing bodies—

No, he wants to take this slow, savor the same sensations that cascaded through him like fireworks last night, surface-raced for an escape. Sneaking out his hand again he turns on his stomach, his sheets whispering highlights of his conversation with Blaine. He moves his arms under the pillow and settles on his right hip, left leg providing the leverage he needs.

There's no one around and his thoughts swim with would-be kisses, his hips tilting against the mattress as he strips Blaine out of his clothes, cotton revealing a madness twisted by soft touches and lips nipping at immaculate skin. He takes his time, hips rutting against the sheets paced and steady, body ravaged by unkempt fantasies of hands slipping carelessly inside red swim shorts, clumsy fingers catching around a hard itch that clambered for release.

His breathing picks up, heat pools in his stomach and he comes with a sweet sigh, euphoria scintillating in his thighs and up his hips, toes curling, body melting slack into the bed.

He dozes for another hour, haunted by the startling realization that his world has come to revolve around a single boy after only one week, and he probably doesn't stand a chance in hell with him. What did Blaine even mean by 'my parents hate the water'? Was this job his way of running from his obligations as the mayor's son, to be Blaine rather than _the son of_? If so, he did fuck up, but he honestly didn't mean any harm. He just took a shot at getting to know Blaine.

He turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, the back of his eyelids plagued by images of hazel eyes.

Last time he felt like this – shit, he can't remember; the past six months lay eclipsed by a relationship where he'd been used and thrown away the moment someone more exciting crossed his boyfriend's path. As much as he liked to claim the bad boy moniker, that meant little at a prestigious prep school he fit into perfectly. He got a kick out of breaking the rules, sneaking booze onto campus, getting a fake ID to go partying and drinking until the early morning hours, but at the start of each new day he still had all his homework finished and got the grades to show for his hard work. He's not a bad boy, but he likes to pretend he is.

Maybe he and Blaine weren't so different after all.

.

He starts his second week by apologizing to Blaine. His curiosity got the better of him, and he'd pushed buttons he hadn't been aware were sore spots. But he's not above setting aside his pride and admitting he went too far.

He finds Blaine in the cabin changing clothes, shedding his polo shirt and applying sunscreen to his arms and chest. His eyes trace over flawless olive skin shining brilliantly with sunscreen – he hates to admit this, but he's taken a particular liking to this boy, one colored the spectrum of summer, bright reds and yellows, maybe some oranges too, and permeated with the potential of summer love, sweet whispers in the dead of night while it's still warm out, uncomplicated fun, no strings attached.

He checks himself in exactly three point five seconds.

Love? Where did that come from?

"You need me to get your back, killer?"

Blaine startles at the sound of his voice, but relaxes quickly, and tosses him the bottle of sunscreen. He moves in closer and treats Blaine's back to a generous amount of lotion, his skin clean, and warmer than he expected.

"I'm sorry about Friday."

"Why?"

Fingers lingering over a pronounced birthmark where Blaine's shoulder meets his neck, a sloppy smear slightly darker than the skin surrounding it _,_ he loses his train of thought, his hand skimming down to the small of Blaine's back.

"Well-"

He's sure he had something to say.

"I know my reputation, Sebastian," Blaine says. "I like my reputation."

The words Blaine omits ring loudest, how upholding a reputation, _a moniker_ , doesn't mean there isn't room for crossing the line from time to time – life's pretty boring without an outlet for its frustrations. That's why he broke the rules, why he smoked pot and drank expensive cocktails, and dated boys far too old for him. He'd love to see what Blaine looks like loose and out of control.

"I wasn't trying to give you crap about it," he says, his own effort at a hidden meaning falling short of achieving its purpose, and he can't even blame it on being high this time. Blaine got under his skin when he wasn't looking, and he's not too keen on changing that.

Blaine faces around, nose wrinkling adorably as he scolds, "You were messing around a little."

"I was-"

Blaine pushes past him and onto the sun soaked beach, his flip-flops scooping up small buckets of sand with every step. His head snaps back and forth between the place Blaine occupied to the new trajectory he's on and he almost trips over his own feet trailing behind the older boy.

"-high," he adds, before a whole rainstorm of words torrents past his lips: "Hey-do-you-want-to-grab-a-drink-after-work?"

Blaine turns around, eyes ticking haphazardly down his bare chest as if trying to divine from his freckles whether or not he's worth the effort.

"Can't. This mayor's son has duties to fulfill."

He scoffs, but accepts the rejection, because he decides there and then that Blaine Devon Anderson is a bit of a tease, and the boy is well worth some of his own effort; the sight of the red swim shorts straining around his ass as he stalks away also gives him ample reason to keep pursuing this. It's not like he has anything better to do.

"Not your type, huh?" Sugar wanders into his field of vision; it's clear she's been well within earshot the length of his conversation with Blaine.

"What's his deal?"

"Take me out for a drink tonight." Sugar smiles. "I'll tell you all about it."

He catches Sugar's eyes, about to turn her down with an equal parts mean and clever line, when it occurs to him he does want to learn what makes Blaine tick, who the rule breaker is behind the façade of a picture perfect boy. So why not?

"Okay, let's get one thing straight," he says, the irony in the statement not lost on him. "I'm gay. I have been and always will be 100% into dick. So if this is your way of trying to get me to stray for whatever you've got going on, you will fall short of achieving that goal."

"Got it." Sugar salutes. "Pick me up at eight."

He's left watching an empty patch of sand where Sugar stood, sighing.

Of all the summer camps in Ohio, how did he get stuck in the one with these two drama queens?

At nine, a full hour after he picked Sugar up at her house, he's had time to regret his decision to accept her help a dozen times over – he schleps after her at the mall, ducking into every high-end clothing store, because apparently there was some big party _, and if she showed up in a dress she'd worn before she'd be kicked off the A-list before she could recite her ABCs_.

He can't for the life of him figure out when exactly this became his life, when his need to find out more about Blaine started outweighing his intense dislike for girl parts, of which he's definitely seen enough to last him a lifetime; unlike most people, Sugar did not understand the concept of a changing room, or closing its doors.

"Can you zip me up?" Sugar waddles toward him, holding up the strapless dress by cupping her hands around her breasts.

He sighs, but zips up the dress in the back, which fits Sugar like a glove.

"What do you think?"

"I think this isn't what we agreed."

Sugar narrows her eyes at him in the mirror, but quickly concedes. "Blaine was in a long-term relationship with this boy from school up until a few months ago. They were set to move in together after the summer and everything."

He catches Sugar's gaze, looming several inches taller than her yet somehow seeming small – she knows exactly what to withhold and how. "And?"

"The guy cheated on him."

He frowns.

"I know, right?" Sugar says, mistaking his expression for confusion. "Who'd wanna cheat on that cutie?"

For all of Hunter's shortcomings at least he never cheated on him, even if Hunter liked reminding him he'd found someone a lot more willing to go around with in secret. Whatever, he never shed any tears over Hunter Clarington, and he didn't need that kind of internalized homophobia in his life. What's far more interesting, and the reason for the question marks crossing his eyes, is that Blaine appears to be out and proud and not about to tiptoe back into the closet. He's just been hurt, and that would make anyone reluctant to start anything new.

"You think he's over it?"

Sugar's eyes light up. "Only one way to find out."

As far as that goes, he and Sugar agree.

"How about we get that drink now?" he asks, offering Sugar his arm. Sugar might've twisted the situation to her advantage, but at least she hadn't lied about knowing something; that deserved a treat.

They're well on their way back from the food court when something catches in the corner of his eye – a boy he's outlined with his eyes several times now, while his fingers completed the deed in his most secret fantasies; Blaine, accompanied by Quinn, exits the mall's JCrew store, both of them carrying about as many bags as Sugar forced on him.

Didn't Blaine have mayoral duties to perform?

Blaine takes note of him right away, a smile skipping to a corner of his mouth, before he returns to whatever conversation he was having with Quinn; he and Quinn continue on their way without sparing them another glance.

"Eesh," Sugar comments, before she starts slurping her smoothie again.

But he smiles. Blaine used an age-old excuse on him earlier, claiming family obligations instead of mentioning a trip to the mall with Quinn. Was Blaine playing hard to get, or was he simply not interested?

Either way, he's determined to get to the bottom of this.

.

"You lied to me," are the first words past his lips the next morning, his eyes caught on Blaine's ass and the curve of his back as he's squatting to pull on his flip-flops.

Not a week ago he determined not to pursue Blaine or any potential summer fling, and now look at him, pretty much falling over himself to catch even the slightest bit of attention. His mother's books might quote his youth, interested in the latest thing or the most exciting conquest, but he hopes (as much as he fears it) that Blaine will prove to be different.

Blaine turns toward his voice and cracks a smile, _a smile_ of all things, as if he means to take a part of his heart with it. "Technically Quinn _is_ one of my dad's constituents."

He cocks an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest. "Her father's money probably helps too," he says, a hip set against the doorframe, confounded as to why his mouth keeps doing things he doesn't want it to do around Blaine; the Fabray family represents old money in this town, though pointing that out could be taken as yet another slight he means to lay at Blaine's feet.

"Huh." Blaine's tongue pushes at the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing on his face. "You're a sore loser."

A laugh bellows out of him and he dares a step closer, encouraged by the lilt in Blaine's voice, the tiniest hint of surprise prying at the distance between them, growing shorter every day. "Only when it comes to guys with asses like yours."

Blaine faces away, a blush setting in his cheeks. "You're incorrigible."

"That's a big word, Anderson."

He advances another step, one that ensures Blaine catches his eyes again. God does he like this boy; he's drawn closer with every word they exchange, and he's fairly certain it's Blaine's intention to unravel him.

"Your daddy teach you that?"

Blaine's quick to answer, " _Books_ , Sebastian," before one of his hands lands hot on his torso, pressing ever so gently against his abdomen. Blood rushes through his veins faster that the speed of light, pins and needles spiraling up his spine; they're skin to skin and he can't think, the gesture so sudden and unexpected his breath flits out of him. "Books taught me that."

His head spins with witty turns of phrase that never reach his lips, along with the ridges of Blaine's fingerprints.

This boy is more than a tease.

He's exactly his kind of trouble.

With another smile, Blaine skips away, off to start his shift like the dutiful employee he is.

He huffs a laugh, heat he can't blame on summer descending steadily beneath his skin, Blaine's hand an imprint his memory won't soon lose. Never before has he been on the receiving end of this kind of teasing, the patience that informs Blaine's words and actions, the calm and quiet that gives way to jolts of abrupt change in his demeanor. He'd thought Hunter to be a challenge; coaxing the poor military school boy out of the closet would've been a feat to be proud of, yet Hunter proved to be a bitter mistake.

What could be more fun than this, chasing after an older boy who clearly enjoyed a certain amount of push-and-pull.

It's hard to think of much else for the duration of his shift, even when Blaine remains focused as ever – Sugar throws him a few pointed stares as if she'd been in that cabin with them, but he won't give her the satisfaction of hearing it from him. His skin crawls, but in a weirdly good way, and that doesn't make any sense. He's not usually the one on the receiving end of flirtatious banter that caught him unaware.

After his shift he heads home to wash up, the pathetic excuse of a shower behind the cabin too exposed for what he has in mind. He locks the bathroom door and sheds the few items of clothing he has on, stepping under the water seconds later, the cold spray offering relief for the heat – but the itch beneath his skin grows more intense.

He conjures up Blaine in his mind's eye, his eyes dark, his eyes bright, his eyes a golden hue, and hands moving over his smooth tanned skin. Then, that hand on his chest, pushing up against his abdomen, only now it slips down and grabs gently around him. While his grip tightens Blaine's lips settle near his ear, whispering dirty talk of all kinds, and digs the fingers of his other hand into his ass.

 _That's it_ , _baby_ , Blaine might say, _just like that_.

His hand picks up speed, and he bites down Blaine's neck, nips at skin scented by the forest and the sand and the water – he comes with a groan that echoes along the bathroom walls, and falls forward against the cold tiles.

A laugh escapes him. This is ridiculous, he thinks as his breathing comes down and the water steadily unspools what little tension still left in his body.

Since when did he develop crushes?

.

By Thursday things have settled again, and most of his time comprises sleeping in, long and tedious six-hour shifts at the beach, and coming to terms with the idea that he may have a crush on Blaine. As far as firsts go most probably wouldn't complain; he gets to see Blaine every day in those shorts that leave little to his imagination, gets to rub sunscreen lotion all over his back -one favor for another, and all that-, yet this gnaws at his insides like a hunger he can't satiate.

He wonders what his mom's parenting books would say about teenagers who don't get their way, or trust fund kids who are used to getting what they want – he's never thought of himself as a walking talking cliché but lately he's not sure.

"Blaine!" Sugar shrieks all of a sudden, and one second he's watching her stand up in the lifeguard chair, pointing out over the water, and next he catches a glimpse of Blaine diving off one of the swim platforms, swimming toward a girl in the water clearly in distress.

His training kicks in and he runs for the shoreline, meeting Blaine halfway to help him carry the girl onto the sand, a small and skinny little thing, struggling to catch her breath. At least that means she didn't take in any water, but that gives them little information on what caused her distress in the first place.

"She's having trouble breathing," Blaine says as he lies her down.

A small crowd gathers around the three of them, like most people are wont to do when there's disaster involved.

"Her name's Dottie!" Sugar shrieks, and pushes through the mass of people all huffy and perturbed; the nerve these people have getting in her way. _Honestly_.

"Okay, Dottie," he says, helping the girl sit up, and like his training dictated tries to calm her down first, "we're not going to panic. We're going to figure this out together, and get you better, okay?"

Big Bambi-like dark eyes find his, and the girl nods her understanding. Then, like he practiced, he takes note of her symptoms, while Blaine's stern, "Give her space," sounds at his back. The circle of onlookers doesn't widen in the least.

Dottie wheezes and coughs, a hand on her chest as if it feels tight.

"Dottie, do you have asthma?"

Sugar gasps. What a plot twist.

"Do you have an asthma action plan?"

Dottie nods frantically, choking out, "In-"

"Your inhaler?" he prompts. "Is it in your stuff?"

Dottie nods again.

"I'll get it," Sugar says, and stumbles backward into the crowd again, running like the wind to where he assumes Dottie's stuff is. He never knew her to be that observant.

He seeks out Blaine, surprised to find his Captain America worrying his lower lip with his teeth, clearly stressed. He's inclined to ask what's wrong, sit Blaine down and talk this through, but they have more urgent matters to attend.

"Let's get her to the cabin," he urges, worried that too many people might make Dottie more anxious, and close her windpipe up further.

With Blaine's help he gets Dottie standing, her left arm swung around his neck and her right around Blaine's, so she has to make as little effort as possible to walk. Once at the cabin Blaine runs inside and collects his hoodie, draping it over the bench so Dottie doesn't burn anything to boot.

A few moments later Sugar comes running with a backpack in one hand and an inhaler in the other. He shakes the inhaler and watches Dottie breathe out, quickly siphoning it her way to relieve her distress.

Sugar's hands wind around his arm, and for once doesn't push her away, because his own heart races counting down the seconds after Dottie breathes in, holding her breath to make sure the medicine reaches into her lungs as deep as possible. This isn't the first time he's helped someone through an asthma attack, and it hasn't gotten any easier.

Minutes pass, and Dottie's wheezing disappears, her breathing slowly evening out.

Sugar's grip loosens.

"Thank you," Dottie squeaks, ducking with a small smile.

At that, Sugar jumps up and throws her arms around his neck, squealing, "My Superman!" at a pitch probably dogs could hear. He laughs, and looks to Blaine, but their commander-in-chief has taken to the beach again, patrolling up and down the waterline for any other potential incidents; something about this spun anxiety into Blaine's shoulders he hasn't seen him carry before, and he's curious as to what could be the cause of it. Surely this had nothing to do with professional jealousy.

Sugar returns to work as well, and he calls someone for Dottie.

"Sorry for being so much trouble," Dottie says, tapping her bare feet up and down in the sand as they wait for her mom to arrive. She's cute, in her own sheepish kind of way, with the cute dimple in her cheek when she smiles, and the large glasses she dug out of her backpack – he also loves that she's no longer dying on him.

From what he read years before, he learned swimming could be beneficial to people with asthma, but heat's been known to have adverse effects on people with respiratory problems. Dottie shouldn't be at the beach on her own.

"Yes" –he crosses his arms– "saving your life will prove extremely detrimental to my reputation."

Dottie giggles.

Half an hour later Dottie's in the safe care of her mom and on her way to see a doctor, and the final hour of his shift ends without further incidents.

Blaine, on his part, remains high-strung and leaves him and Sugar to pick up stray items on the beach, while he disappears into the cabin.

"What's got his panties all twisted?" Sugar turns up her nose. "We saved a girl's life today."

It's a comfort to hear he's not alone in noticing something's remiss with their fearless leader, but it brings him no closer to finding out what that is.

" _May_ -be" –Sugar pokes at his side, fixing him with a pointed stare- "one of us should go talk to him before he skedaddles."

Leave it to Sugar Motta to turn into the voice of reason.

He heads for the cabin, bone tired in a way the past two weeks hadn't yet left him, giving into the pull of his curiosity. He finds Blaine sitting on the short bench near the lockers, elbows on his knees, hands in his perfectly gelled hair. Was this good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress? Things like this don't happen every day, but Blaine's been here three summers running – he must have navigated his share of crises.

"Are you okay?"

"No," Blaine mutters, mussing up his hair further. "I've been doing this for three years and nothing like that has ever happened."

As the senior lifeguard Blaine's also the head lifeguard, in charge of things around here absent anyone higher-ranking, and as Blaine Anderson, the boy very much attached to his reputation, he can see why that responsibility weighs on him. But there's a reason there are three of them, why today was the perfect example of a team working in tandem to relief Dottie's stress, and why none of them would ever be left in charge of the beach on their own.

"If this had happened last year I wouldn't have known what to do."

"You did your job," he says, and sits down next to Blaine. Blaine did exactly what he was trained to do; he responded to the situation without a second thought, and that's all anyone could've asked. "You got her out of the water."

Blaine shakes his head. "But you-"

"I got lucky."

"You knew exactly what to do."

He shrugs. "I knew this boy in middle school who had asthma."

"You were amazing," Blaine breathes, curls escaped their imprisonment along his hairline, and it makes him look older, put together, however ironic that seemed. Another one of those moments passes between them, staring at each other longer than the situation requires, a gravitational pull he wished he could navigate properly.

He winks, ruining their moment. "You sound surprised."

Blaine snorts, and pushes their shoulders together. "You're the worst."

.

Windows rolled down and the radio blasting some Imagine Dragons he pulls into the employee parking lot an hour and a half before his shift is set to start, but with drills and hammers incessantly roaring through the entirety of the house, he refused to spend another minute at home. Sitting out in the fresh air accompanied by the sound of water and his favorite lifeguard was a no-brainer trade.

Despite his usual aptitude for these kinds of things, he still hasn't been able to gauge Blaine's interest. Blaine flirts with him in that maddeningly endearing way he has, but it's gone no further than that. If Sugar's right, and Blaine's single, maybe it's about time he took his shot and stopped dancing around this.

"Hey, Sebastian," he hears as soon as he climbs out of the car, and he barely catches thick lips, blue eyes, and a mop of blond hair over the hood of the next car.

"Hey-y," he calls at his morning shift colleague, eyebrows knitting together in a frown. He should really learn this guy's name. He talked to Quinn and Kitty a few times at training, but given the intense focus their job required the morning crew never stuck around long after they arrived to relieve them. It's uncommon for anyone to duck out an hour early though.

Most visitors had vacated the beach to grab some lunch, but Kitty and Quinn remained on post guarding the handful that remained.

"You're here early." Blaine appears from the cabin as he sits down at the picnic table, the plastic seats still tolerable to sit on. "I didn't take you for the eager beaver type."

"House is under construction," he says. After all the assumptions he's made about Blaine he's not about to take that as an insult, but if Blaine's here this early every day he might have to take that eager beaver attitude to heart.

Blaine settles opposite him at the table with an orange and a bottle of water. "So this kid you knew who has asthma," he says, picking at the peel of the orange.

His mouth freezes around a bite of his sandwich. "What about him?"

"Was he cute?"

"I am deeply offended by that assumption, Anderson." He smiles, and swallows. "Looks aren't everything."

"But was he?" Blaine's nose scrunches, while the sweet bite of citrus disseminates any preconceptions between them. All at once, any playfulness wanes from their conversation, almost as if his gallantry yesterday placed him in a different light. But why should it have; he didn't do anything anyone else in his position wouldn't have done before, during, or after, and he'd hate to think Blaine thought that low of him.

"He was my first boyfriend," he confesses, and brings to mind the sweet face, the pink of his lips. "Flaming red curls. Freckles on his nose and cheeks."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen."

One of Blaine's eyebrows rises almost imperceptibly, before his eyes fall to the orange in his hands, and he can't read his expression. Is Blaine impressed? Surprised? Shocked? Thirteen isn't that young, but it leaves him to wonder when Blaine came out, or if he's out to his parents at all – he's taken most of his information about Blaine's love life from Sugar, and all of a sudden it dawns on him that he may be repeating a pattern here. Is Blaine still in the closet, like Hunter was? Were all those plans about moving in with his ex-boyfriend made behind his parents' backs?

"How long were you together?" Blaine asks next, still peeling his orange, still focused on his task, still just asking innocuous questions.

"About as long as it took for our parents to figure it out."

This makes Blaine pause. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

He faces away.

Getting caught kissing a boy wasn't the ideal way for him to come out, but it got the message across. He never regretted how it went down, or how it was received; he learned from an early age to decide the kind of man he wanted to be, even if being gay wasn't what his father had in mind when he taught him that lesson. "We still keep in touch."

"That's nice."

Somewhere behind him a kid screams, and the waves of the water lap at the shore, and he can't remember the last time he felt this way about another boy. It can't have been three years; this memory of a feeling can't trace back all the way to Harry and his innumerable tiny freckles, his soft lips, and cute dimpled smile. He must've at some point felt something similar to this that didn't end in miserable heartbreak.

 _Fuck_.

"Are you free tonight, by any chance?" he asks, at the risk of falling into a tried-and-true pattern that will end up hurting him again.

"I have plans."

"What about tomorrow night?"

Lips parting, Blaine bites the inside of his cheek.

"One date, killer," he insists, "that's all I'm asking."

Blaine casts down his eyes. "I really can't."

"Because of your dad?"

"No, that's..." -Blaine frowns- "He's not thrilled that I'm gay, but he's accepted it."

No longer in the closet, then. But if that's not the problem he can't fathom what is; he's been sending clear signals – signals, he likes to believe, he's gotten pretty good at interpreting, and Blaine didn't strike him as the kind of guy to toy with someone.

"Then what's the problem?"

Blaine draws in a deep breath and sits up straighter. "Look, Sebastian," he breathes, "you're a great guy, and I'm really flattered, but we work together."

"No one has to know."

"No, I really like this job," Blaine urges, "and it's my last year before college. I just- think we should be friends."

And at that point he's not mature enough not to let the words, "Are you serious?" slip past his lips like the rejection doesn't hit him like an insult, like being _friendzoned_ is an actual thing and not some backward way for people to justify their entitlement. Because, seriously, _what the fuck_?

A pained expression crosses Blaine's eyes. "I'm really sorry," he says, and gets up, leaving him to stew in his own confusion.

He can't have read this so wrong. Was he too young? too forward? not forward enough? Or was this all painfully simple: did that asshole ex of Blaine's do such a number on him he's not ready to start dating again?

Two hands land on his shoulders, making him jump.

"Jeez Louise, Sebastian" -Sugar taps at his shoulders a few times more, and starts massaging- "You need to relax. I don't have room for second-hand stress in my life."

" _Sugar_ ," he growls, but holds back on the snarky comments, not trusting his mouth to say anything else, "not now."

Sugar's hands still, and she falls silent, which is more than he hoped for.

"Everything okay?"

"No." He shakes his head, shocked to hear himself admit it. "No, it's not."

With another squeeze of her hands, but a respectful silence, Sugar leaves him alone with his thoughts the same way Blaine had. Talk about a plot twist; Blaine's not into him, and Sugar Motta's become an unlikely ally – the end must be nigh.

His Friday in ruins he tries to get into the swing of things; he changes into his signature lifeguard gear, catching Quinn and Kitty on their way out, and joins Sugar and Blaine on the beach. He doesn't look Blaine's way, they don't exchange barbs when they rotate positions on the beach, and he most definitely doesn't start focusing on the idea that this is somehow all his fault. There's no way he's attracted solely to emotionally unavailable guys. He can't be that much of a cliché.

Then again, at the end of the day the blonde's back, waiting by the cabin for Blaine to change clothes – he vaguely catches a name, Sam or something, but pays him little more attention than he had Blaine for the past six hours.

That is until he watches the two of them swagger toward the forest together, and Sam throws an arm around Blaine's neck and pulls him closer, while Blaine pokes at Sam's side and it's all he can do before he can't stand to see another second of it.

His tongue clicks off the roof of his mouth. Some closeted American sweetheart.

Clearly Blaine's not worried about that relationship interfering with his job.

What a joke.

.

"What are you doing?" comes his mom's voice that Sunday, followed by the quick tick of her heels on the patio tiles. Wind sweeps through the trees flanking the backyard, raising goosebumps on his skin.

Behind his sunglasses he cracks open one eye, and moves a few inches when his mom sits down next to him on the lounge chair. He's idled by the pool with a book for almost two days straight, and he's not at all shocked to find his mom bringing him one of her infamous mojitos. As long as his dad isn't home, his mom likes enabling his vices.

"I believe the kids these days call it" –he raises both hands to add the air quotations- "'chillaxing'."

"You're moping."

He huffs. _Semantics_.

"Is it that boy you told me about?" she asks, pinpointing the exact cause of his current _ennui_. Whatever books she's reading seemed to be doing the trick, because she's never made such astute observations about his life before.

She strokes a hand across his forehead, and he leans into it.

There was a time, back when his family's life came built around the wonder of a first-born son and not his dad's career, he and his mom were a lot closer, he told her everything about his day, and there were no secrets between them. Those times were long gone. She had her life, and he lived his, and there wasn't much room for bonding in the places where those lives overlapped.

Now, for the first time that summer, he feels closer to his mom than he's felt to anyone, and he realizes that maybe his biggest problem isn't this crush, it isn't his confusion regarding Blaine, but it's the simple fact that he's lonely. He hasn't had someone to talk to since school ended, and none of his friends from Dalton lived nearby.

He sighs. "He's not into me."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay."

But he thinks his mom hears the lie clear as day. His heart's weary of secrets and empty promises; he may have thought Hunter an interesting challenge but truth is Hunter Clarington turned him into his plaything, his to boss around at will, and for a long time –too long– he kept crawling back for more. Blaine's not worth this cat-and-mouse game any more than Hunter was.

There's something to be said about self-respect and 'fool me twice's, and all that.

What's worse is Blaine could've told him the truth; he could've told him he had a boyfriend. He can handle rejection. What he can't handle is secrecy, lies, deception, and to be honest, given how his last relationship ended he expected more from Blaine.

"Us Smythes never- mope around for long."

"Is that so?" his mom muses, before kissing his forehead, her fingers lingering in his hair.

No. He doesn't believe that either.

.

At the beginning of his third week he vows things will be different. He managed to get over Hunter, so he's bound to put this crush on Blaine behind him sometime before the end of the summer. That's going to start today. He bears Blaine no ill will and he can't ignore him for the next five weeks – that kind of behavior is for children or people whose pride gets in the way, and his has had ample reign since last Friday.

He gets out of his car and means to head straight to the beach, running late as it is, when a town car pulls up, the windows in the back rolled all the way down. Did it take a wrong turn somewhere?

His eyes narrow on the back windows, but the passenger's profile is unmistakable. "Blaine?"

A town car with a private driver.

It must pay to be a mayor's son.

He walks over and ducks to have a look inside, at the black leather upholstery and cup holders, the ample legroom and the partition in between the backseat and the driver's seat; a car like this must have air-conditioning. There's no reason for the windows to be rolled down, unless—

His eyes tick over Blaine again, sat small in the backseat, his curls disheveled and skin ashen, and he bets if it weren't for the sunglasses Blaine's eyes would be bloodshot. When he fantasized about seeing Blaine loose and out of control, this isn't what he had in mind. Had he partied all weekend?

"Don't take this the wrong way, Anderson, but you look like shit."

Blaine groans.

"You know," he says, unable to stifle a smile, "most Star Employees like yourself have the decency not to show up hung-over on a Monday morning."

"Shhh, I'm fine." Blaine brings his fingers to his lips, before unsuccessfully fumbling around for the car door handle. "Once I get into the water I'll be as good as new."

"Blaine, you're a mess." He pushes up against the door so that Blaine couldn't get out if he did locate the handle – he can't believe he's even entertaining the thought of working like this. "Go home before anyone sees you. I'll get Quinn to cover for you."

It's a testament to Blaine's current state of mind that he raises no immediate objection. "Are you sure?" he mumbles, speech slurred like he's still drunk. "Because I can-"

"I'm sure." He laughs. "You'll scare away all the children like this. Go sleep it off."

He may have vowed to get over Blaine, but that doesn't have to stand in the way of him being a decent person. There's no way Blaine can work like this, and if any of the beachgoers were to notice one of the lifeguards was still technically drunk, that could mean the end of Blaine's prestigious summer career. Perish the thought.

This probably shouldn't amuse him as much as it does, but given the situation they're in it's good to remember Blaine's still human, that he's capable of making mistakes and he pays for them the exact same way the rest of them mere mortals do. The hard way.

"Thanks, Sebastian," Blaine says before groaning again, his head falling back against the backseat headrest.

.

It comes as no surprise to see Blaine on post again on Tuesday, bright and chipper, and any signs of a hangover gone with the morning sun. He can't fathom how he does it; how he goes from that mess of a boy he caught in the car yesterday, to this meticulous and put-together young man who more than likely has a five-year plan for the future stashed in a day planner somewhere. He deals with his fair share of preppies at Dalton, and arguably belongs to the same category, but he's never met anyone like Blaine.

Fuck. He wasn't going to do this anymore.

He leans up against the doorframe of the cabin, determined to find a different sense of camaraderie that will last them the rest of the summer, and won't involve picturing Blaine naked all the time. "Exactly how hard does one have to party during the weekend to still be hung-over on Monday?"

On his part, Blaine seems to have anticipated his presence, because he calmly closes his locker before turning to him. "I'm so sorry about yesterday."

An amused smile curls around his mouth.

"I'm never drinking again."

"Now don't go saying things you don't mean."

Blaine laughs.

"Your boyfriend should take better care of you," he says, dropping his backpack to the floor, and he's none too sure if it's some underhanded comment toward Sam, or genuine care for Blaine's wellbeing. Maybe it's a bit of both.

Hazel eyes set around that same pained expression he identified last Friday. What's up with that?

"Sam isn't-" Blaine shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, and as he glances around the cabin for God knows what, a sure slope of defeat sets across his shoulders. "I don't have a boyfriend."

He trips an involuntary step closer. So that public display of affection he witnessed on Friday wasn't an exchange between boyfriends – but bros?

That shouldn't draw him closer. He made up his mind about this.

"Anyway," Blaine sighs, "it's not even about that."

Blaine pats over barefooted, somehow filtering some of the oxygen out of the cabin – he wasn't going to do that anymore; he's not about to let Blaine dictate when he can or can't breathe around him, but that's exactly what happens. His pulse quickens and whatever ambient sound came in over the water lowers to white noise.

"I'm supposed to-"

"Set an example?" His eyebrows rise. "Be the dutiful mayor's son?"

Blaine shrugs. "I guess."

He gets it. He does. Being his father's son entailed a great many responsibilities too; the zero-tolerance policy on discussing his sexuality aside, he's meant to enjoy every benefit of his education, look and act the part during those few work functions that required the whole family to be present, and, of course, always, uphold the good Smythe name. But his father's job doesn't define him; he's not just his father's son.

"Doesn't a state's attorney's son have obligations too?"

"How do you-?"

He never told Blaine the details of his dad's job.

His eyes narrow. "Did you Google me, Anderson?"

"What exactly does a state's attorney do?" Blaine answers with another question, not confirming or denying if he did in fact go through the trouble of researching him online, and draws closer too. "And what is a Dalton Academy Warbler?"

Whatever unspoken thing he's been trying to deny hits him like a cold front – Blaine's doing it again, he's flirting, and he's so taken by its warmth he chases after it, chases after Blaine, traversing the small cabin in a few quick steps. He may as well be a butterfly about to be captured unaware, stuffed inside a mason jar with barely any holes poked through the lid.

Blaine flees, and cackles, "Can you show me some of your dance moves, Sebastian _Warbler_?" soon finding himself pinned between his body and his locker – their breathing comes hard and heavy, turning him a little lightheaded, his hands pinned on either side of Blaine's head, and all he wants to do is kiss this boy, kiss him hard, kiss him silly, kiss him until the sun sets. But maybe not in this ramshackle little hut that could come down on them any moment.

"Now what?" Blaine asks, before any playfulness fades again, and his eyes skip down to his lips.

His lips part.

"I thought-" he stutters, all words lost to him, because he thought he figured this out, he thought he understood Blaine's motivation for turning him down, for leaving with Sam, for holding back on this kind of flirting once he noticed his interest. But now, what's he supposed to think? He's been toyed with before, and he won't go through that again.

"You thought wrong," Blaine says softly, and places both his hands on his chest, burning hotter than the sun, straight through the thin layer of cotton. His heart must be beating out the craziest rhythm Blaine has ever felt; he's surprised he's still standing after all this.

"I- thought wrong," Blaine says, sighing, "I thought if I-"

All he hears behind Blaine's confession is the pain of a terrible breakup, of a broken heart mended but weary of getting hurt again, and if the past few days have proven anything it's that he understands that all too well. His wounded pride spun this all into what it clearly wasn't.

"It's okay," he whispers. "You're here now."

Yeah. Crushes make him kind of corny.

Girls' voices sound outside.

"We uh-" Blaine clears his throat. "We should get to work."

He doesn't get the chance to say anything, because Sugar drops in with her usual, "Hi, guys!" for the entire beach to hear, and pushes Blaine and him aside to get to her locker. "What's new?"

"Later?" he asks Blaine, as if there's no one else in the room.

Blaine nods, and smiles, his eyes softening. "Later," he says, and makes his way outside.

Heart racing, and more than a little dazed after everything that transpired over the past five minutes, he quickly changes clothes, his skin buzzing with the anticipation of what that 'later' could entail. Would Blaine take him somewhere, or would they stick around here? Will they take this to the next level?

"What was that?" Sugar asks, zeroing in on the obvious tension left in the room. "Did something happen?"

Will something happen when they reach that 'later'?

"You can't hold out on me!" Sugar squeals.

"There's nothing to tell." He shrugs, but winks at her on his way out for good measure. It's possible he may have gotten somewhat attached to Sugar's antics and her obvious investment in his life, but he's not about to tell all.

No. This is his and Blaine's.

"Sebastian!" Sugar screams.

He laughs, and staggers onto the beach, leaving behind a very frustrated Sugar.

Six hours have never seemed as long as the six that follow his confrontation with Blaine. That 'later' he promised takes its sweet time rolling by and when the time finally comes, when Sugar gives up on trying to milk him for information and heads home, after every forgotten item has been picked off the beach, and he cleaned up as best he could using the shoddy shower behind the cabin, he sits waiting for Blaine to do the same.

Sun set and the temperature steadily dropping, all the heat leaves the sand and the forest, soaked up by the twilight. Despite the anticipation grown over the past few hours he's tranquil, at rest when it usually takes at least one joint to soothe his innate restlessness. Blaine might have something to do with that.

He breathes in deep when the sound of footsteps draws his attention, and Blaine emerges wearing a dark shawl-collared hoodie, shorts and sneakers, not much different from how he's dressed. It makes him think about that short-lived fantasy he had about curling up against Blaine's chest and breathing him in. Now that might not be a fantasy for much longer.

He stands, unsure of what to say, unsure –all of a sudden– of how this goes. His mouth's dry and his palms sweaty, and his heart starts beating in reverse. He might as well be thirteen years old again, about to kiss a boy for the first time ever.

Without a word, Blaine walks over and takes him by the hand. Their fingers intertwine, hearts syncing, the quiet of the forest washing over them like calm waves of water.

They retrieve some beers from Blaine's car, and next thing they're pushing deeper into the forest, led by the round lanterns lighting some of the paths in the park, and Blaine's sense of direction. He feels like a little boy following behind someone with an intimate knowledge of the ins-and-outs of these kinds of things, this unspoken Big Thing he's not allowed to know about because he isn't old enough. Yet he's done this before, and he does know how this goes, and he's never felt more mature versed in where this will lead, how they'll come together, give into the inevitability of it all.

Soon, they come to a clearing, one of the campfire sites spread at irregular intervals through sections of the forest. He sits and opens two beers, watching Blaine collect wood for the fire and light it moments later.

"Let me guess," he says, while Blaine closes the distance between them, "Boy scout?"

Blaine blushes, and smiles, looming tall over him, waiting.

He complies without question, opening his legs so Blaine can sit down and snuggle up against his chest – his lips push up to his hair, and he smells raspberries and sweat, the fresh jersey cotton of his hoodie, and the afterburn of firewood.

Above them, owls hoot, and stars starts to show in the night sky, and beneath all that splendor, his arms around a boy who's been on his mind every day since the day they met, he can't think of another place that might feel more like home. It's never been easy for him to find places like that, somewhere he belongs, somewhere he's accepted, but that's not one of his worries when he's with Blaine.

No. That's a different one entirely.

"Why didn't you want to go out with me?" he asks, begging the explanation from Blaine he hadn't made him give earlier. There's a part of him that needs to be reassured that this won't be another disappointment, and that he's learned better than to fall for the same type of boy all over again.

"I leave for college after the summer."

"It's more than that."

Blaine shifts in his arms, his eyes burning a fiery orange in the light of the fire. He's not proud of asking this, nor does he imagine this is easy to talk about with a boy he's trying to move on with, but for the sake of both their reservations it needs to be said.

"Someone broke my heart."

He cups one of Blaine's cheeks. "I'm not going to do that."

He had his heart broken; it seems fair he doesn't do that to anyone else.

Blaine grabs around his wrist, his eyes shining, and he starts shaking. "You can't make that promise."

No. He can't right the past or travel back in time and stand guard over Blaine's heart, but he can be the best he can be, prove that not every boy is like the boy who broke Blaine's heart, that there are good guys out there worth going all-in for; and even if that's not him this summer fling, whatever they label it, can be fun and meaningful and healing. It can be temporary, or it can last, but no matter what it doesn't have to hurt.

They drown in each other's eyes for a long time, waiting for one of them to speak first, realizing that all has been said, and that to make a promise that might be broken or the idea that promises like that can be made in the first place is beneath both of them.

So he leans in instead, and pushes his lips to Blaine's with his eyes open. He's all-in if Blaine's here with him, if this is real, here and on that beach and any other places they choose to venture. As long as it's real, he's all-in, for however long it lasts.

Blaine stops shaking, pulling back to bump their noses together, and tilts his head the other way before he brings their mouths together again – his eye close and he gives himself over to the very idea of it, of a whole entire summer bathed in bright reds and yellows and the scent of citrus, of uncomplicated fun, of no strings attached until they knot them together with their own clumsy fingers.

His tongue runs along Blaine's upper lip, and he sighs into his mouth, relaxes into his body, the two of them an uncoordinated mess of loose lips and comfy sweaters.

.

.

 **tbc**

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

 **& Our Hearts Beat In Reverse**

part two

.

Summer kicks it up another few notches over the days that follow, and the forest heaves under the weight of the heat. It gets harder to breathe, the air laden with ozone, too thick to inhale, but that doesn't stop people from swarming the beach; families with children, groups of teenagers trying to cool down in the water, and young lovers hoping to get away from their parents' prying eyes.

He meets Blaine for lunch, and while he can't resist a short game of footsie underneath the table he behaves himself for the most part. Despite stealing several hours making out last night he's not sure how far he can take that in public, or how comfortable Blaine would be reciprocating. It's best to figure that out as they go along, little by little, which should prove exciting enough.

With the sun at its peak and temperatures at a new high his skin needs some downtime, so he dons his white t-shirt for the first time in three weeks. Blaine still insists he wears sunscreen, because he won't be able to wear his shirt in the water.

"You are so pale," Blaine laments, squirting a generous amount of sunscreen near the base of his neck, smearing it out over his shoulders and upper arms, down his back and around his waist. After three weeks he's not nearly as pale as when he started out at the beginning of the summer, but he still has some ways to go.

"That's still considered a beauty standard in some parts of the world, you know."

"If you say so," Blaine says, and pokes at his sides, " _Cate Blanchett_."

He scoffs, "Turn around" but resist teasing in return. Sugar will be here any moment, and he won't have her catch them _in flagrante delicto_ or any position that'll have her screaming the entire town together. Not that he wouldn't much rather steal more moments with Blaine alone.

"We can't all be blessed with the Anderson genes," he says, breath ghosting over the back of Blaine's neck, all to provoke some kind of reaction – he'd do better behaving right now, before six hours become another eternal waiting game, but he thinks back to last night, to how the crackle of the campfire accompanied the implicit trade their mouths made, and he can't wait to get back to that; today, and tomorrow, and every day allotted them after that.

"They're my mom's genes," Blaine corrects with a certain amount of attitude, but shivers as he plants a kiss over the birthmark where his shoulder meets his neck, lips lingering over skin far more accustomed to the sun.

"Sebastian," Blaine whispers, nothing in his tone betraying any annoyance or objection.

The tips of his fingers follow the curve of Blaine's back, right down to the waistbands of his shorts, and he nibbles over the birthmark, muttering a reluctant, "Yes?" as the palms of his hands ache to slide down over the swell of Blaine's ass – he's been starved this for a long while, a body willing to sway into his, lips all too eager to explore.

Blaine giggles, but turns around, pushing at his chest. A precarious index finger rises between them, and he gets the sense that if he doesn't comply he might be seeing more of it.

"We are going to be professionals," Blaine warns, his tone as convincing as it is commanding, and it's more of a turn-on than he's willing to admit. "No funny business while we're on shift."

He idles a step closer, folding his arms behind his back. "And after our shift?"

"Well" –Blaine's lips purse and shine with the chapstick he applied earlier, and he can taste it, the strawberry flavor, the silky wax residue– "That falls outside of my purview as head lifeguard."

With a shake of his head he falls forward and strips a kiss straight from those alluring lips. Next thing Blaine's hands are on his chest, still sticky with sunscreen and hot to the touch.

"Outside of your purview," he huffs, and they kiss with smiles too wide, "You little shit."

Blaine laughter catches at his sternum, trapping pockets of air within their kisses, but they deepen nonetheless, lips brushing, and when the moment's right, when his heartbeat's given him a solid four-count, his tongue strokes along Blaine's lip, the one that catches between his teeth when he's worried or nervous.

"Sebastian," Blaine whispers, and breathes in, coming back around for more. Their tongues meet, an indecent itch starting at the base of his spine, and he fears the cabin might come down around them from the sheer force of his buzzing skin.

A breathless squeak coming from the doorway shakes them both from their reverie.

" _You guys_!"

He swallows hard, mesmerized by how dark their making out has left Blaine's eyes. Wasn't there something he meant to mind?

Another squeal follows in answer.

"Don't mind me," Sugar hushes, and she's out the door again before either of them has the chance to feel self-conscious.

Blaine snorts, falling forward against his chest, and while he never thought he'd be amused by any of Sugar's antics for as long as he lived, he can't help but laugh at this, caught in the act after all, by someone who's unlikely to ever let this go.

"Now we've done it."

"She's harmless."

"I'm starting to think you're anything but."

Blaine frowns up at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means" –he pushes another kiss to Blaine's lips, overtaken by a force stronger than any he can fight– "I really don't want to work today."

Blaine's fingertips trace down his chest, tickling, before they give into another bout of kissing, completely unaware of their responsibilities. What's there to be responsible for when he has Blaine in his sights?

"Uhm, guys?" rasps Sugar all of a sudden, the door of the cabin creaking open. "As much as I openly and enthusiastically support this, and I will need _the_ _deets_ later, it's getting kind of crowded out here?"

"Yeah," Blaine hums, eyes still closed, fingers digging in around his hips like he means for this to go a lot further; a particular kind of heat sets below his waist, and if he hopes to get any work done at all he needs to slow this down, take a breath, move away from the far too enticing body in front of him.

Then, Blaine finds his voice again, "Yeah, we'll be right out," and he can't help but point a stern index finger.

"No funny business," he jokes, tripping backward toward the door.

Blaine blushes, but he doesn't receive any official reprimand.

He shrugs on his shirt and makes his way out onto the beach, relieving Sam of his position along the shoreline, while Sugar and Blaine do the same for Kitty and Quinn. He wonders what the rest of the others' days look like, whether they head home for a shower and manage to do anything else but nap, or if any of them still have ample time with their boyfriends or girlfriends. Because, in hindsight, the afternoon shift might not be the most ideal time slot. By the time he and Blaine finish every night the day's over, and neither of them have much energy for anything else. Though, if that anything else looks anything like last night, he could learn to live with that.

"Sebastian!" sounds his name all of a sudden, and he turns in time to see Dottie Kazatori make her way over to him. He hasn't seen her since her asthma attack last week, but he's glad to see her better. It's been strange thinking about Harry in all this, how their past together helped relieve Dottie's distress, and how it's inadvertently brought up insecurities he thought he'd dealt with. But Hunter's far more to blame for those.

"Dottie. Hey." He waves, while keeping a wary eye on the people in the water – Sugar wasn't kidding; it's more crowded than usual. "You're not here alone, are you?"

"I'm with friends," Dottie says. "They know what to do in case I have another attack."

"Good." He nods, but makes a mental note to pay close attention to Dottie either way; it's far too stifling for her to be doing anything remotely exerting. "Be careful, okay?"

"O-okay," Dottie stutters, before he has to start his walk down the beach – he can tell he disappoints Dottie, but he's not technically allowed to make small talk when he's watching the beach, and he wouldn't want to get cautioned by his all-American sweetheart.

Over the next few hours they have to isolate two people showing early signs of heat stroke, and they have one fainter, though with the temperature this high it still feels like they got lucky. All of them make sure to remind visitors to stay hydrated, and each of them brings the others a bottle of water so they don't succumb to the heat themselves.

Thankfully, the day draws to an end and the beach empties, heat still sunk in the sand and in their skins, but to his –and Blaine's– great joy the intense afternoon left Sugar far too tired to ask any prying questions. She heads home as soon as they finish tidying up the beach.

"This heat is unbearable."

He draws his sweat-soaked shirt across his forehead, but fails to complain any further when Blaine wraps his arms around him from behind and his chest connects hotly with his back – that's all rather bearable, if he's honest, especially if it promises more lip-locking.

"We could, you know..." Blaine muses and motions to the water, nonchalantly dipping a finger inside the waistband of his shorts. Whatever he thought up or down destabilizes and turns on its head; no one's allowed on the beach after dark, let alone in the water, but his head spins with the idea as his hands slip over Blaine's.

"Skinny dipping?" He cocks an eyebrow. "Without a licensed lifeguard keeping careful watch?"

His embrace loosening, Blaine gives a little shrug that's equal amounts coy and smug, and he heads toward the water. With the sun setting Blaine's silhouette cuts sharp through the twilight, and he watches with parted lips how he lowers his shorts to the sand and steps out of them. His sly rule breaker.

One of these nights their day is going to have to end on or somewhere near a bed, and he doesn't even mean that in any sexual way; he's tired to the bone, and hungry, but his attraction to Blaine proves too strong.

"You're not shy, are you?" Blaine teases as he pauses near the water's edge.

He winks, "I don't want you to start weeping at the sight of my chicken legs," but confidently steps out of his shorts, and toes into the water.

Blaine cackles, so he chases him in the water for a good long while, both of them screeching and slapping at the water, which breezes cool over their flushed skin. Anyone walking past might mistake them for ten year olds, snuck out after dark to go play where they aren't supposed to.

Slowly, a full moon rises and they relax on the water's surface, floating side by side, staring up at a sky dotted with stars, the occasional airplane lights, and a single shooting star.

"Why did you change your mind?" he asks, his question directed more at the stars than at Blaine, his voice dampened through the water in his ears.

Blaine's shoulders rise out of the water. "Did you say something?"

For a moment or two he hesitates. He knew why Blaine turned him down, and maybe that's enough; he doesn't need to hear what brought about Blaine's change of heart, why he went from keeping him at arm's length to confessing he had feelings for him all along. But there must have been a reason.

He shifts, shaking the water from his hair. "Why did you change your mind about me?"

With a few quick strokes Blaine swims over, his hair a loosened mess of wet curls. "Why is that so important to you?"

"I guess-"

He releases a slow uneven breath, staring out over the water as if it might provide a safer answer than the truth – but that's unfair, at this point, after begging that same hazardous response from Blaine yesterday.

So without questioning it any further, but unable to meet Blaine's eyes, he confesses, "-someone broke my heart too," waiting for the inevitable silence, for the surprise in Blaine's eyes and voice to eclipse the anxiety steadily raising goosebumps over his skin. He can't believe how young he sounds, how vulnerable, like he hasn't the slightest clue what he's doing, let alone how to do it. Like he's a kid playing make-believe.

"After you asked me out I talked to my mom," Blaine says, wading another few inches closer.

He should know by now that Blaine wouldn't do him the discourtesy of dismissing his feelings.

"And I talked to Sam."

He meets Blaine's eyes, luminescent under the careful guard of the moonlight.

"I realized I was still letting someone else decide what I did or didn't do."

Hunter's smug grin flashes in his mind's eye like a warning light.

"I don't want him to have that power over me anymore."

After all the confessions laid out in the sparse space still separating them, he understands that too. He gives Hunter that same power by mistrusting this thing between him and Blaine, by somehow putting Blaine on par with Hunter while Hunter doesn't measure up to Blaine in the least, not by the most miniscule amount. Maybe, if this lasts long enough, he'll learn Blaine's everything he hoped Hunter would be and more, because as challenging as Hunter had been, the real challenge had been coming to terms with his own feelings – he loved Hunter, he knows that now, and whatever part of him thus far exposed to this summer fling was falling for Blaine.

Blaine bites at his lower lip, eyes tripping down to his mouth as he draws in a shaky breath. "I- really like you, Sebastian," he says, so quietly it's as if he's afraid the night might steal it away.

He smiles, whispering, "Good answer," even though the clear hesitation in Blaine's voice has its desired effect; it may well be they're kids playing at something far bigger, something lasting, while the opposite could be true as well. Either way they seem committed to whatever's pulling them closer together, to falling into this thing, and as their lips meet he finds solid footing in the sand beneath his feet.

Blaine's arms wind around his neck and his around Blaine's waist and their lips part; they breathe together, their naked bodies touching in rhythm with the waves in the water, and he licks carelessly into Blaine's mouth.

A moan flutters down his throat; he can't tell whose.

"I really like you too," he confesses, voice dipped lower, heart grown a few sizes too big.

.

Come Friday he and Blaine choose not to stick around the beach, but to go out together instead. Striking a balance between work and whatever it is they're doing has proven more difficult than either of them expected, but that's okay; what's important is that they're having fun, that they're spending time together, and in due time they'll get the hang of this.

Back home, he jumps in the shower to wash off a few layers of sunscreen and the sand knitted in his hair, and he takes a half hour power nap to regain some sense. He's meeting Blaine at a club later, and he'd prefer most of his faculties intact until he's at least three drinks into the night.

At seven sharp he sits down for dinner with his parents for the first time that summer. His parents usually go out on Fridays, or his dad has a work function to attend, so he mostly ends up eating alone in front of the television. That's suited them fine for the past couple of years, so he suspects this is another one of his mother's attempts at gluing their family back together.

She made lasagna, a personal favorite of both him and his dad, showing how invested she is in this working out. It's a romantic idea, one that brings out the true Parisienne in her, and he daresay he missed seeing it.

All through dinner his dad talks about the case he's working, an important indictment against a big arms manufacturer found bribing a slew of law enforcement officials. It's not unusual to see his dad worked up over a case; he remembers his grandfather no different before his retirement, and it reminds him each time how he doesn't share either of these men's ambitions. He has no desire to be a lawyer or a soldier, two careers that were envisioned for him before he was even born.

"And you, sweetheart?" his mom's voice reaches through his half-hearted attempt at tuning out the conversation. "You have any plans?"

Eyes travelling from his father at the head of the table to his mother opposite him, he resigns himself to her romantic ideals. She's put in the effort of making them this meal, of getting them together around the same table; he might as well repay those efforts by playing nice.

"I'm going out."

"That's nice." His mom's eyes widen with mirth, clearly encouraged by his uncharacteristic openness. "With anyone we know?"

"A guy from work."

His dad's fork clatters down on the table. "What did I tell you about that kind of talk?"

Catching his mom's eyes he raises an eyebrow as if to say, _See? This is why this will never work_ , his father's words hitting them both like a cold shower. He likes to think it's far more important to know who he is and who he wants to be independent of his father, rather than fit into a tailor-made framework designed by someone else, but it makes his father's disapproval no less painful.

"I said _going out_ , dad," he fires back, and meets his father's gaze head-on, "not _I'll let him blow me in the backseat of my car_."

He watches with great contentment how his father's eyes first widen in shock, and his lips part, right before that signature Lieutenant-Colonel Smythe brow darkens his entire face.

"Leave this table, right now," his father hisses, while his mother's hand curls around her husband's.

"Yeah." He tosses his napkin on the table and shoves his chair back. "Before all this Smythe charm starts rubbing off."

He storms out of the room and stomps up the stairs, shaking with anger by the time he reaches his bedroom, and slams the door shut behind him for good measure. So much for his mother's hopes for them. Things will never be like they were before; before he got caught kissing Harry, before he admitted that yes, he liked boys the way his father deigned he should like girls, and that wasn't going to change. Before he disgraced the family name.

Most of the time he's glad he came out when and how he did, but that didn't mean he didn't often wonder if it would be any easier on his home life if he hadn't, if he'd be at all still capable of that kind of trade: part of his identity in return for fatherly affection. Then he thinks about Harry, and Blaine, and even Hunter, and reasons no, no father's love could be worth this – not the freedom to love who he wants.

What's worse is it's his father who instilled that kind of agency in him in the first place, who taught him to decide the kind of man he wanted to be so that no one else would ever try to change that. How did that end up making him unwanted?

He draws a hand back and forth through his hair. Why does he still let this get to him? He's not unwanted. He has a date with a boy who wants him, and he's not going to let this years-old animosity with his father ruin that.

He dresses in some washed out jeans and a blue shirt, and styles his hair a little, running into his mom in the hallway on his way out.

She's clearly been waiting for him.

"Mom," he sighs, and pushes past her, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Be patient, sweetheart." His mom's at his back as he heads down the stairs. "He's trying."

"No, he's not. He never has." He turns to face his mom halfway down the stairs. Of all the things he might need right now his mom making excuses isn't one of them. "You're trying for the both of you."

It's more than that; his mom doesn't have to try because she accepts him for who he is – she'd prefer if he drank solely under her supervision and that he remained sexually inactive for another few years, but beggars can't be choosers; he's an exemplary student, he's never embarrassed either his parents outright, and he's never railed against the system the way his father imagines he does. He's allowed some transgressions.

"So, this boy-" his mom prompts, expertly changing the subject.

A smile slips to a corner of his mouth like it's a reflex. "Blaine."

"I thought he wasn't into you."

"He's just-" he breathes, and thinks about it, how everything changed so fast, how Blaine changed his mind and he'd fallen into whatever-this-is without sparing it a second thought, and how it's all so... uncontainable. It shouldn't make sense, he should be more cautious after Hunter, but he and Blaine have a connection he can't deny.

He shrugs, "It's just for the summer," even as the imprint of Blaine's lips on his skin feels nowhere near that casual.

At that, his mom smiles, like she knows something he doesn't, and he hasn't felt like this much of a kid around her in years. She takes a step closer, and brushes a hand along his shoulder, her eyes glossing over. "A summer love can be the most meaningful relationship you ever experience, Sebastian."

Gravity takes hold of him.

Love?

There's a tiny whisper of a voice at the back of his mind that's considered it, that suspects this is more than Blaine's way of hiding from his obligations or reputation, and more than his way of running from his loneliness, from home, which has become oppressive even when it's not invaded by construction workers.

But, love? Is that what he and Blaine are playing at?

"Don't waste a single moment."

"I won't," he says softly, making the same vow, here, now, to not let anyone dictate what he can or can't do with his heart – if his father wants to think less of him than so be it; he won't be under his yoke forever and the moment he graduates he'll be out of here, he'll make his own way in a world of his own making.

"And be safe." His mom taps a finger to his nose, distracting him as she slips a condom into his shirt pocket.

" _Mom_ ," he groans, all too aware of the two wrappers in his back pocket.

He follows her downstairs red in the face, and stares at the closed door of his father's office, where he must've slunk back to after dinner. Despite his best intentions shutting out his father's words it never hurts any less, to sit next to his father at the dinner table and hear a small devil whisper, _What's wrong with you? Why can't you be the son he wanted?_ , some twisted trick his mind liked to played on him. He never has to worry about those voices at Dalton, or back at the beach, or, he realizes, in his mother's presence.

He trusts that his mom has his best interests at heart even if his father doesn't, that he's a priority to her and that when he's away at school she misses him.

He should take greater care keeping in touch.

Overcome with what he supposes most people would call sentiment, he kisses his mom's cheek on his way out.

"What was that for?"

He shrugs, halfway out the door, and winks. "For looking out for me."

Twenty minutes later he and Blaine find an empty booth for them to sink into with their drinks, far enough from the music to hear the other talk, close enough for the beat to be a distraction to a heart prone to more irregular rhythms when it beats around Blaine.

Its current rhythm still lay chained to his dad's words, a familiar yoke weighted across his shoulders. This is why he didn't come home more often, why he opted to stay at Dalton over the weekends, and why his relationship with his mother took the turn it did. He hasn't been able to breathe at home for three years, constantly erasing himself in the rooms he occupies, wiping away his fingerprints where they stain the meticulous surfaces of his father's life.

"Hey."

A hand digs through his hair, and his eyes fall shut for a moment. Why's he thinking about his dad at a time like this? He's at a popular club with great music in the company of a boy he's exclusively touched in his fantasies up until now – now Blaine sits tucked into his lap.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asks, scratching at his scalp, which does things to his insides he never thought possible. "You're somewhere else."

"I know" –he sighs, curling two fingers around his beer– "I'm sorry."

Blaine settles in tighter, pushing a kiss to his temple. "Did something happen at home?"

"My dad, he-" He takes a swig of his beer, swallowing hard. "He's ex-military."

Blaine's head drops. _Don't ask, don't tell_ , he realizes, and the push of Blaine's lips to his shoulder impresses the whole entire weight of that history, of denial and shame and forced conformation. He tries his best to live his life without adhering to those base doctrines, but some days that's easier than others. "I'm sorry."

He wishes it didn't come at the expense of his time with Blaine.

"Forget it." He draws in a deep breath and shakes off his unease, turning into Blaine's body – he's with the boy of his dreams, far from any disapproving parents. "Let's have some fun."

"I thought we were." Blaine smiles, and surges forward to plant a big lingering kiss on his lips in plain sight of everyone. It frees up space in his lungs his father stole, Blaine's mouth breaking down his discontent, bringing him to this singular moment in time where all he needs to be is Sebastian. Not _the son of_.

 _Don't waste a single moment_ , his mom's words echo through the room and unchain his heartbeat, and he coaxes Blaine onto the dance floor meaning to do just that; leave his mark, be present, stain his fingerprints everywhere.

Music washes over them in waves, and the ebb and flow of the crowd swallows them up in a sea of bodies – Blaine stays close, and as alcohol flows through his veins, taking the edge off the worst of his father's bark, they're cheering, jumping, throwing up their arms, singing along even though their voices don't reach over the music.

He detaches from anything still holding him down, sweat dripping down his temples and he doubts anyone could ever take this from him, push him down into a box again, force him to be anyone other than who he's made himself into.

Blaine's arms fold around his neck, and his hands draw down to Blaine's hips, and soon they're not so much dancing as they're slow grinding, one of Blaine's legs between his, their foreheads pressed together, their hips rolling in the same circular motion.

He kisses Blaine, or Blaine kisses him, he's lost sight of the minutiae, and whatever takes hold of him he gives into it without question. Emboldened, his hands grab down around Blaine's ass and pull him impossibly close, their groins skimming, hands exploring, skin flushing with the kind of heat no season brings. Goosebumps rise over his entire body in spite of that heat, realizing where this is going, where and how they might end up.

Blaine bites behind his ear. "Let's get out of here."

He doesn't have to be told twice.

Their hands locked they head for his car, where they fall into the backseat together, trading heated kisses while frantically tugging at each other's clothes, the windows fogging up.

He ends up on top of Blaine, and they start rubbing up against each other without rhyme or reason, working themselves into such a frenzy Blaine loses track of his mouth and gasps, "Oh God," before biting behind his ear, hips bucking up into him, "Oh f-fuck."

"You are exceptionally sensitive, Anderson."

"It's- been a while," Blaine breathes, and the confession flutters like wings in his chest; it's reassuring to hear Blaine's sharing this with him without reservation, that he chose him and now to do this again and that he wants to be here.

"Well then" –he pushes a soft kiss to Blaine's throat– "I probably shouldn't rush this."

Blaine shudders beneath him, tugging at his shirt until it gives way and ends up in the front seat, while he hikes up Blaine's shirt to litter and bite kisses down his chest. His feet push flat against the car door, his long legs hopelessly in the way, but he refuses to sacrifice a single inch of space, not when he undoes Blaine's pants, not when he slips them down his hips, not when he leans in and plants a kiss over his hipbone, causing Blaine to shake harder.

He smiles against Blaine's skin.

"Come here," Blaine whispers, and he meets him without question, tongue-tied and falling.

Blaine reaches down between their bodies to undo the button on his jeans, pull down the zipper, and shimmies his pants just past the width of his hips. His forehead lowered to Blaine's he breathes hard, moaning once Blaine's hand grabs around both of them and it's all he can do to keep from crying out.

Blaine strokes them a few times, until he starts thrusting into Blaine's hand, creating enough friction for the both of them. He brings their foreheads together again, moving too frantic to coordinate their mouths properly, and they dissolve into chorus of moans and gasps, hitching breaths, teeth raking over skin until he can't take it anymore – he stills and cries out and comes all over Blaine's chest, Blaine following soon after.

His arms give out and he lowers down over Blaine, who opens his legs so he can settle more comfortably, riding out their climaxes, shivering and twitching.

"Next time we do this in a bed," he mutters into Blaine's shoulder, devolving into an uncomfortable kind of sticky. He dislikes the thought of going home to shower, though; he wants whatever time he can get with Blaine.

"Oh" –Blaine scratches at the small of his back– "next time?"

His face falls, coming down a bit too hard, and as he rises on his arms again he stutters, "Y-yeah" in a panic. Had he read this all wrong?

"Relax," Blaine laughs, "I'm joking," before pulling him back down into a kiss – Blaine can't do that, give and steal oxygen at a moment's notice because before long his lungs will give out and he'll lose all sense of self. Maybe he has already, given Blaine this power over him.

He smiles, "You're a fucking mess," which earns him a few loving pats to his cheek.

"Speak for yourself," Blaine hums, a bit out of this world.

.

After that, there's no stopping them.

Blaine introduces him to Sam properly, who he met through his work volunteering at one of the many soup kitchens the mayor's office uses for its PR stints, and reveals that Quinn's family are indeed important contributors to his dad's campaign, but they bonded over a shared loathing of their families' connections. Their merry band of lifeguards agrees to go out for drinks several nights in a row, and they talk about new movies, make fun of other people at the bar, and split the check evenly, even though the girls ordered expensive cocktails.

.

One night at karaoke, after one drink too many, he serenades Blaine with an Ed Sheeran song and even adds an impromptu dance combination, coming back to the table with a " _That's_ a Dalton Academy Warbler, Anderson," and a wink, before throwing an arm around Blaine's neck and pulling him back into his lap.

Everyone applauds and demands an encore, and he happily obliges.

He can't recall a time he had a group of friends like this outside of Dalton, or this close to home, fun and silly and acceptant of his sexuality. It makes him worry he's been in some part responsible for his own isolation, too picky about who he lets into his life, because by the looks of it Blaine's never adhered to that policy, and he's surrounded by people who love him every day.

Yet, Blaine's still isolated all the same. His father's name ensures that.

.

"I'm clearly a good influence on you." Blaine giggles, and pushes him into a bathroom stall before he's able to get his bearings. He stumbles backward and catches himself at the stall door, before Blaine's all over him, attempting to get him out of his pants.

"Killer." He grabs around Blaine's wrists. "You're drunk."

Cheekily rising to the tips of his toes, Blaine begs a kiss he can't resist granting, and he lets go of Blaine, of any resistance he may have still felt. Blaine taking charge has undoubtedly become one of his biggest turn-ons, and he doesn't protest now, especially not when Blaine bites into his lower lip, and says, "I'm not that drunk."

He swallows hard and licks his lips, Blaine's hand working over him in circles, taking a painstakingly long time to free him from his pants.

"I seem to recall you saying you were never..." –he gasps as Blaine slides a hand inside his boxers– "... drinking again."

"I seem to recall you telling me that was a promise I could never keep," Blaine mutters to his lips, before falling to his knees, licking a hot line over him.

.

One insanely early morning, bribed with sufficient amounts of caffeine, he and Blaine take their bikes and cycle up to Crescent Point, hiking the last two miles because the climb is too steep. Given that it's six in the morning it's not too hot, and since it's summer no other person sound of mind is out at this hour, so they should have the look-out over the valley all to themselves.

By the time they reach the top his calves burn, an ache he'll undoubtedly endure for a few more days.

"You owe me for this big-time, killer."

"I got you coffee." Blaine blinks, as if he's innocent in all this, his eyes far too big for someone who got up at five to catch a sunrise. "And I can treat you to _other_ _things_ later."

His hands slip around Blaine's waist. "Tell me more about these other things."

Blaine's laughter echoes much farther than he thought possible up here, but it must be a nice sound for Westerville to wake up to, if anyone down there can hear them – the steep cliffs at Crescent Point drop down into a wide valley, overlooking Westerville and Lima and several of the neighboring towns, even Columbus in the far distance.

He hugs Blaine to his chest, tempted to fall asleep exactly like this.

"Thank you for doing this with me," Blaine whispers as the sun rises behind them, bathing the entire valley in light.

Even he can see the poetry in this, rising at the crack of dawn to watch the rest of their small world wake up too, fully realizing how small it is, and how much more there's out there waiting for him. For them.

The world's at their feet and theirs for the taking.

He kisses the top of Blaine's head. "It was worth it."

.

At work Sugar bombards them with questions every single day, dissatisfied that she's being kept out of the loop for the most part. Neither of them have trouble showing each other affection even with Sugar around, but they do try to remain as professional as possible when they're out doing their job – he wouldn't put it past a bigot or two to contact Miss Rhodes and get them fired because their children were subjected to their relationship.

So, Sugar complains and huffs and puffs, but he can't lament that.

What he has with Blaine is his, and it's Blaine's, and no one else's.

.

One rainy weekend he invites Blaine over and they built themselves a little nest in his room; they lay out blankets and stack pillows and install his laptop on the floor, binging on Netflix series and documentaries, snacks, and each other, making out and letting their hands wander.

Blaine watches the second season of some show called _Sense8_ , which he doesn't understand at all, but a lot of the actors are hot, and when the scenes get more erotic it's hard for Blaine to keep his hands to himself – so he suffers through.

His father either isn't home or remains unaware Blaine visited at all, because no sermons come his way, and he doesn't get kicked out of the house for bringing a boy over. He imagines he has his mom to thank for that.

"You never told me you were dating Blaine _Anderson_." His mom slaps at his arm, sneaking up on him after he sees Blaine out; try as they might to spend all their free time together, they both still have family obligations to fulfill.

"You never asked."

"What does the mayor think about you dating his son?"

He shrugs. Why would that matter? He never told his mom because Blaine's last name had nothing to do with him falling for him – on the contrary, it was his name that'd made him sound far less appealing than he turned out to be, too reminiscent of how Hunter's name was worshipped in certain circles. He was proven wrong, but Blaine's last name still didn't matter.

Should it? Should he heed his mother's question? Has his affection for Blaine blinded him to the fact that for all intents and purposes what they're doing can still be considered as sneaking around? He talks all big about shaping his own world while he goes around behind his father's back – it's all in order to avoid alienating his family any further, but now he can't help but wonder: was he a secret Blaine kept from his parents?

.

"Have you told your parents about me?" he blurts out at random the following day, he and Blaine retreated back to their fort of blankets and pillows, rain clattering against the windows.

Blaine sits up and pauses the second to last episode of his binge, and gives his question his undivided attention. He never meant for it to come out, because his trust in Blaine reached levels not a single person has thus far earned, but he doubts bottling up stuff like this benefits any kind of relationship; this is something that bothers him, and it matters because it never mattered to Hunter.

"Of course I have." Blaine settles back down next to him, pulling a pillow in his lap. "Why?"

"Nothing. It's stupid." He huffs a laugh, and he stares down at his hands for want of anything better to do. What is it about talking about his feelings that turns him into a twelve-year old boy?

Blaine bumps their shoulders together. "It's not stupid."

He catches Blaine's eyes in a careful sideways glance, but once he does he can't look away. Blaine is beautiful, and he's kind, and he understands him in ways no one ever has. Not even his mom.

"You're not some dirty little secret to me, Sebastian."

The words are more liberating than he ever thought possible; he's been tied to a past with another boy –the wrong boy– for so long it's unfairly affected his relationship with Blaine. Blaine isn't Hunter, and he's not the same boy he was before Hunter, and it all makes him fall for what they have that much harder.

.

That weekend his dad makes him attend a luncheon with his colleagues, each of them hoping to brainwash their offspring into taking a similar career path as them. He's on his best behavior among his peers, as he is through most of these things, laughing at all the jokes and puns, boasting about his grade point average and extra-curriculars, and secretly texting the boy he's dating.

 **Blaine, 1:05pm:** I'll have you know I make an excellent plus one ;)

 **Sebastian, 1:08pm:** It's not really your scene.

 **Blaine, 1:10pm:** You're my scene.

He snorts, and quickly focuses back on a conversation about future college plans, before his father can fault him for anything other than his sexuality.

These affairs are all lies; no one his age wants to be here and everyone older than him more than likely has better things to do – there are a few exceptions, a few sons that earned their fathers' pride by committing to a career none of them know the first thing about, but that's on them. For him it's nothing but a mask, a costume he wears to fool his dad's colleagues into thinking he's like them, that this is a future he wants as much as his father does, and leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

It's all for show, all for his father's reputation, and he's nothing more than a prized animal taken out on special occasions meant to behave.

"Sebastian," his father calls for him once lunch is over, everyone broken into smaller groups, headed off to other afternoon plans.

He gravitates toward his father and conjures his fakest smile for his dad's old business partner Ronald and his son Dylan. There was a time he and Dylan hung out as friends, until the older boy started drinking the Kool-Aid and accepted the mold his parents provided. Maybe it was easier.

"Ronald has invited us for a game," his father says. "I thought you might like to join us."

 _A game_ , he learned, was code for golf, which in turn meant him and Dylan playing caddie. His good behavior must have fooled his father into believing he's at all interested in lugging around golf clubs for the rest of the day, all while singing his praises. He's had his fill of that today.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he says, while an urge overtakes him the likes he should learn to control better, lest he does get kicked out of the house without a trust fund to support him. "I made plans with my boyfriend."

His mom will probably lecture him later about his childish need to antagonize his father, and how the books say that doesn't benefit a healthy father-son relationship, but he'll power through without complaint; it's worth seeing the look of sheer horror on his father's and Ronald's faces, and the barely contained smile on Dylan's.

He winks. "Don't let me stop you, though."

He punches out and heads outside, where Blaine's waiting for him. He sinks down into the passenger's seat of the car, relaxing for the first time that day.

"I'm _your scene_?" he mocks Blaine's earlier text to him.

Blaine laughs. "Shut up."

Their lips meet in a quick kiss, and as they drive past all the rakes his dad works with he experiences the most distinctive sense of joy. What can be more liberating than this? Being exactly who he is, with a boy he's crazy about, sticking it to the man?

"How was lunch?"

"You mean lunch with the Clone Club?"

He unbuttons his pressed white shirt and tosses it into the backseat, along with his dress pants, and retrieves the outfit he stashed in Blaine's car yesterday. No way he's going to a football game in his Sunday Best.

"It was fine. I know the drill." He shrugs, shimmying into a pair of shorts. "Brag. Smile. Warble on."

"Sounds like one of my dad's charity dinners."

"Hmm," he hums, leaving thoughts of his dad behind. "I was even invited for golf."

Blaine feigns shock. "You passed up golf?"

"I told them I had plans with my boyfriend."

Focused on the road, Blaine nods in response, but still manages to mess around. "Because I'm a boy-"

"-who is my friend." He chuckles. "Exactly."

Boyfriend isn't a word they've used; not because they aren't, or because they don't mean to be, but because it doesn't matter what they are. He doesn't need a label or a definition.

They drive up to Columbus, where they spend the rest of the day. Blaine shops around for chinos and loafers, and he stocks up on books. Their seats at the game are terrible, almost packed all the way up into the rafters; they eat stale hotdogs and drink lukewarm lemonade, and cheer for teams they can barely tell apart, but none of that matters when he's with Blaine. The rest of the summer could devolve into storms and rain showers and they'll manage to have a good time. Nothing can take this from him, not even the end of summer.

After the game they stumble their way through the crowd holding hands, retelling the exciting bottom of the ninth as if they're sports commentators and they hadn't both watched the underdog take the game.

"I thought you didn't like football," Blaine says.

He smiles, but whatever he meant to follow that up with catches at the back of his throat at the sight of a familiar set of eyes in the crowd. Hunter Clarington.

Time slows for a few infinitesimal moments, the six months before the summer flashing before his eyes like a highlight reel; every decision, every mistake, every wrong turn he took on his way to a broken heart. He barely recognizes himself, groveling at Hunter's feet, falling over himself backward, coming back for more even when it became clear Hunter in no way reciprocated his feelings.

"Sebastian?" Blaine asks.

The eye contact lasts exactly two seconds, before he watches Hunter discard him like he had a dozen times over the course of their relationship. How had he ever let it come that far? Why had he let himself be toyed with like that?

He licks over his teeth. He won't let Hunter do this; he won't let him under his skin any more that he had done these past few months. He moved on. His indifference proves that.

"Let's go."

It's been a long journey and he's still on the road to recovery, but he's not angry anymore. If Hunter was content living his life closeted and forcing himself into a box so be it; Hunter stopped being his problem the moment he dumped him, and he's come to terms with the mistake he made ever trying to pursue a relationship with him. His time's better spent elsewhere, somewhere closer to home ironically, with someone far more loving and far more caring.

As if reading his mind, Blaine takes his hand and holds it, and as their eyes meet, as he leaves Hunter Clarington and his past behind him, he thinks his mom was right. Whatever he builds with Blaine, whether it lasts or not, it'll forever be one of the most meaningful relationships he ever has.

"Who was that guy at the stadium?" Blaine asks over dinner at a small steakhouse they passed on their way into the city.

He should've known his brief encounter with Hunter –if that's at all what he could call it– wouldn't go unnoticed. In any other circumstances he might not be so willing to share, but this is Blaine, and he carries wounds still sensitive to the touch too.

"Asshole who broke my heart."

Blaine sits quietly for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. "You want to talk about it?"

His knife and fork lowered to the table, he sits back; it's not a story he hasn't run through a million times already, and there's nothing for him to be ashamed of. It took him a long time to come to terms with that.

"Hunter isn't out to his parents," he says, "so we snuck around. But he-"

He draws in a deep breath, pushing down all the vile things he's labeled Hunter since they broke up. Liar. Asshole. Insensitive jerk. And the one word that keeps coming back like a ghost that haunts him. Heartless.

"It was just physical for him, and it wasn't for me. It took me a while to realize that."

Blaine reaches out and cups a hand around his. "I'm sorry."

"Live and learn, right?"

Blaine smiles weakly, before his eyes fall down into his empty plate. What has Blaine had to live through and learn, he wonders; a cheating ex, someone he thought he'd move in with after high school, another asshole like so many others that couldn't tell a good thing when they had it? Neither of them has talked about their previous relationships until today, and having it out there doesn't make him feel any less vulnerable. He doubts that'll ever change.

It's never as simple as the expressions assert; _moving on_ isn't something that happens in the blink of an eye, _getting over it_ is easier said than done, and life never spells out its life lessons as clearly as people like to pretend it does. He may not have shed tears over Hunter Clarington, but that relationship did a number on him. He can't imagine what it must be like being cheated on.

"This guy- you dated."

Blaine looks up. He vaguely considers that these aren't the kind of conversations two boys simply playing at a summer fling share, and the pained expression around Blaine's eyes almost makes him rethink his question. But he'd spoken about his ex in no uncertain terms weeks ago; like him, Blaine was done letting someone else make his decisions for him.

"How long were you two together?"

"Almost two years." Blaine pushes his arms underneath the table, and shrinks smaller in his seat. "He- accused me of flirting with every guy I met."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"So he cheated." Blaine shrugs, and avoids his eyes.

"Blaine," –he scoots forward, trying to catch Blaine's line of sight– "even if that were true, that's some fucked up logic."

And Blaine nods, like he's barely convinced and still struggling with his part of the blame, and he understands that what Blaine means to say is _It took me a while to realize that_ , like it took him a while to cast Hunter in the role of villain, and what little blame lay on his shoulders had only ever been overlooking the truth. Hunter never wanted him the way he wanted Hunter, and this asshole Blaine dated clearly didn't care enough about their relationship to respect Blaine, or talk about things before committing such a heinous act.

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Live and-" Blaine grimaces, "-suffer, and learn, right?"

Yeah. That's all bullshit, anyway.

He grabs his Coke and raises it higher. "A toast."

This, at least, draws a smile from Blaine, and he joins him in toasting. "To recognizing assholes."

He smiles. "And cutting them out of our lives."

.

"I was afraid of this," Blaine whispers, and turns lazily into his shoulder, his index finger drawing a line along his collarbone. It tickles; he's certain Blaine knows that, but that doesn't stop him from caressing the same line over his skin again and again. Blaine's bare feet toe at his shins and they've molten into the mattress like it's memory foam, set perfectly around the outlines of their bodies.

The bedroom windows opened wide so the scent of the joint doesn't stick around the house, he catches Blaine's hazel eyes in between two blinks of his, eyelids drooping, his body's edges coalescing into Blaine's. Orange and yellow spots dance around his field of vision from overexposure to everything the summer has been so far; fun and terrifying and eye-opening.

"Of what?" he asks, taking a long drag from the cigarette – it's a stalling technique, he realizes, because for a while now he's suspected the same thing Blaine's about to address, that it's love brewing between them the likes he's never known and that's so incredibly scary and exciting at the same time part of him wishes Blaine wouldn't say it at all.

Smoke curls and fades in the narrow space their bodies occupies, and in Blaine's eyes he finds his own hesitation reflected. They're too young for this and he's far too inexperienced to be versed in the overall _denouement_ of it all. What if this is love? How does he do this?

"Being this crazy about you," Blaine whispers, pupils blown, lips kissed a swollen red, surrendered to the idea that this is what it is – it's love or something like it. It could be fleeting, it might end the moment summer bleeds into fall and the leaves darken into a gloomy brown, but right here right now it's real, and it's the deepest he's ever felt for anyone.

His lips meet Blaine's in that dance they've memorized, short sweet kisses that grow more heated, but maintain the slow mellow pace the drug in their veins commands, and all the while a single thought keeps spinning through his mind.

Could this be love?

.

.

 **tbc**

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

 **& Our Hearts Beats In Reverse**

part three

.

August brings in its wake somewhat milder temperatures, but it doesn't affect their job any. People still flock to the beach to flee their everyday lives, spruce up their everyday routines with a bit of sunshine, downtime, and a nice swim.

There's something to be said about free time and the great outdoors, especially when six months out of the year he's cooped up in a classroom or the library, and he can't recall why his previous summers never looked like this. Had he been asleep all that time? What made him decide to be a lifeguard this year? At least half of that answer was some financial independence from his father, but there's an equally measurable part of him that knew the notion of an inflexible home grew less appealing the older he got. He wanted more responsibility, he wanted something different, and he wanted the space to grow into someone other than who the Smythe name implied.

"And then I was like-" Sugar rants, while he tries his best to tune out the conversation by focusing on the healthy snack Blaine brought for him, "- _why don't_ you _take the day off! I need to catch up on_ My Strange Addiction _episodes and you kind of have this irritating nasal quality that I can only take so much of_."

It's lunchtime, and Kitty, Quinn and Sam were still patrolling the beach while he, Sugar and Blaine ate, a routine he and Blaine adopted, so, naturally, Sugar couldn't miss out. She'd been ranting about someone called Shelby for ten minutes straight now, and he's grateful when she takes a breath long enough for Blaine to finally interject, "Sugar, I'm sure your vocal coach knows what's best for you."

"But enough about me." Sugar waves off Blaine's well-meant advice, and props both hands underneath her chin, elbows on the table, million dollar pussycat smile softening her face. "Which one of you tops?"

A chunk of apple lodges itself in his throat.

He coughs and coughs in an attempt to breathe again, vaguely aware of Blaine's hand at his back, unable to clear his throat for ten seconds straight. When he finally does, all he can do is gulp air like he's a fish out of water.

"That's private, Sugar," Blaine answers politically, patting at his back.

"Sorry," Sugar smiles sweetly, " _Asperger's_ ," and leaves the table.

He covers a hand over his chest, his heart beating like he's being stabbed from the inside. "We can't let her keep getting away with these questions," he chokes out; he's never underestimated Sugar's penchant for prying into their private lives, and he's more than a little into sexual innuendo himself, and but enough is enough - there has to be a line she can't cross. "You know she only calls us her BFFs because we're gay."

An amused smile plays around Blaine's lips. "That's very politically correct of you."

"This doesn't bother you?"

Lips pursing around an answer, even Blaine can't possibly justify this as any self-diagnosed condition; he'd never be that offensive. "I- just don't think there's anything either of us can say or do to dissuade her."

No. He supposes that's true. There's something oddly endearing about Sugar's weirdly disturbing nosiness. Maybe it's because she's so tiny or she dresses in such bright colors, or maybe, and this is far more likely, he's suffering from severe heat stroke and he should get his head checked. He's certain he never liked her this much starting out.

Blaine kisses his cheek, "So suck it up, sailor," and smiles, all proud of himself, and he can't help but laugh. His two drama queens have done quite a number on him since the start of summer. This job has proved beneficial to him in more ways than one, from a renewed vitamin D intake to battling what he now knows had been loneliness.

"Your girlfriend's here again."

He frowns and looks up, spotting Dottie making her way onto the beach. Ever since he gallantly saved her life she's made it a point to announce her presence, and Blaine lovingly started calling her _his girlfriend_ not long after, much to Sugar's constant chagrin. It's an upside world when there are two girls vying for his affections, even though Dottie must've realized by now she holds no interest for him.

Dottie waves the moment she sees him.

Blaine clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "That's every day for the past three weeks."

He waves back, but shrugs off Blaine's assumptions. Unlike Sugar, he does consider Dottie harmless; she's far too shy to demand the kind of physicality Sugar does, or to pry into his private life. If she did have a crush on him, he could never reciprocate; even if he weren't gay, he's happily taken.

"She's here for the beach."

"She has a crush on you," Blaine's voice lowers to a whisper, earning himself a slap to the ass once he stands.

.

Halfway up the drainpipe he fears he severely underestimated the climb it would take to get up to Blaine's first floor bedroom window.

That, or he overestimated his own Spiderman-like prowess. One foot pushed against the wall and hands clutched around the pipe he nearly slips and falls on his ass chancing another step, but he catches himself in time. Not an hour ago this had seemed like one of his more Parisian ideas, though now that he's up here he wonders if there wouldn't be more sense in giving up and never telling Blaine a thing about this; what Blaine doesn't know can't be used against him at a later time.

But he's never been one to give up easily.

His breathing erratic, he reaches the roof of the garage and hoists himself up, staying low as he crosses its length. Finally, he comes around to Blaine's bedroom, where Blaine's sat on his bed flipping through a magazine, feet hooked at the ankles, fresh out of the shower, because his curls have popped out of their gel encasing.

It only strengthens his resolve.

He taps softly at the glass.

Blaine startles and looks around the room trying to locate the source of the sound.

He knocks again, harder this time.

"Sebastian?" Blaine's voice comes muffled through the double-plated glass, before he slides the window open. "What are you doing here?"

"I-"

He flings a leg inside, but miscalculates the depth of the room and loses his balance, dropping unceremoniously to the floor.

"-wanted to surprise you."

"With a heart attack?" Blaine helps him up. "You can't be here."

"Relax, killer, I was careful."

"Blaine?" a voice calls behind the bedroom door – Blaine's mom by the sound of it. _Pamela_ Anderson, Blaine had informed him, which led them into a heated discussion about whether his mom had been sober when she took her husband's last name.

"Holy shit," he curses under his breath and drops to the floor again without a second thought, ducking out of sight behind the bed. He'd been so careful, making sure the groundskeeper left before he hopped over the hedge and staying out of the light until he hit the garage. Come to think, he probably should've considered the Andersons more than likely had an alarm of some kind installed.

The door opens and Blaine whirls around, inadvertently kicking him in the head; wincing, he covers a hand over his mouth. This is not how he pictured the night would go.

"Blaine, honey?" Pamela says. "Your dad and I are going to watch a movie. You want to join?"

"N-no, thanks, mom," Blaine stutters and sinks down on his bed, effectively trampling him in the process, like some way of getting back at him for putting him into a situation where he has to lie to his mom. "I- want to finish my book."

When long moments of silence follow he's certain he's done for, that he'll have to clamber upright and meet Blaine's mom and dad, all red in the face and apologizing profusely for defacing the garage door wall climbing his way up here, and then be forced to watch whatever movie it is they're going to watch without being able to touch Blaine. That had not been the plan.

Panicked, he grabs a hand around one of Blaine's feet.

"Everything alright?" Pamela asks.

Maybe this was too impulsive, even for him. He didn't think this through. Blaine's last name might not matter to him but he just snuck into _the mayor's house_ ; Blaine doesn't talk about his dad much, but if he's anything like his he could forbid Blaine from ever seeing him again.

His grip on Blaine tightens.

Love has clearly made him stupid, too.

"Of course," Blaine answers somewhat too peppy, but it seems to do the trick; a few more seconds pass and he hears the click of the door closing.

Both he and Blaine release a breath.

Yeah. This one's on him.

Turning on his back he tries on a smile, and Blaine kicks at him playfully – he deserves that. He should've checked to see if Blaine was up for this, or at the least texted to ask if the coast was clear.

He sits up and Blaine sits down on the floor next to him.

"This is some serious high school movie- shit." He laughs at his own choice of words, and looks at Blaine sideways. "Too much?"

"Depends." Blaine glares. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

He grins. "Sleep with you."

Blaine grabs the magazine off the bed and hits him over the head with it. "With my parents downstairs?" he scolds, mistaking his meaning.

This may have turned into a romantic idea, but the initial train of thought behind it isn't one he's proud of. Sometimes, in sparse moments of weakness, he does still compare Blaine to Hunter, and how they're sneaking around all the same – maybe not out there, when they're running free and aren't subjected to their parents' scrutiny, but each time they've tumbled into bed together one of them inevitably ended up leaving, resulting in a cold bed and nights filled with restless dreams. He can't be the only one so unwilling to leave each time.

"No," he urges, and pulls Blaine's hand into his lap, his strong legs soon following, Blaine tucking his body closer. "I mean, I want to wake up next to you."

Their eyes meet.

For a moment or two Blaine searches his face, for the truth, for sincerity, he's not sure. What he does know is that they've both been hurt in the past, and neither of them want to be taken advantage of, or taken for granted, which means there are these tiny fears that remain alive inside them.

"That's-" Blaine sighs, brushing a finger down his cheek and he turns into the touch, kissing the palm of Blaine's hand, "-the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."

"That a yes?" he asks, pushing his forehead to Blaine's.

Blaine nods, whispering, "You have to sneak out again in the morning," and brings their lips together, whisking away any answer he might have given. One of his new tiny fears is that he's getting too attached, that the nature of their relationship, the when and how has set him up for inevitable heartbreak once the summer ends and Blaine sets off for Columbia, and he's left with the same old friends and family that he means to escape.

But that's worry he tries to hold down underneath the water with both hands, hoping it'll drown and dissipate in a pool of amazing memories they've made and are still making.

He nips at Blaine's lips until he's dizzy, until they're both dizzy and they slip under the covers in their underwear doing just that – losing themselves in each other, finding themselves, drowning the perception that this will ever end. All he feels is Blaine and that's all he needs to, confident that all Blaine needs is him in return.

He's in love.

He's all too aware.

.

Morning slips in through the window, indifferent to the two boys tangled together in the bed, the sun's rays somewhat too intrusive.

He stirs awake, spooned around Blaine, nose buried in a mess of curls, his right arm numb where Blaine slept on it all night.

A smile catches in a corner of his mouth; this is exactly what he had in mind when he decided to come here yesterday, waking up with Blaine in his arms, each one of his senses overwhelmed; seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling and tasting Blaine – and he's happy to find it's in every way the experience he imagines it would be. Blaine might not be his first in everything, but he's the first in a great many other things. Things he once longed to find in the wrong boy.

Still too tired, and reluctant to shake Blaine from sleep, he plants a kiss behind his ear. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes, and drifts off again.

When he opens his eyes half an hour later some feeling has returned to his arm, and Blaine's wide awake staring at him. He turns his face into the pillow, mumbling, "Morning," overcome with emotion; he's embarrassed he wanted this so bad he scaled an actual wall to get here, that deep down he's every bit the romantic his mom is, and that despite all that he's incapable of facing Blaine right now. His face might turn red.

"Morning." Blaine pushes a kiss to his throat, effortlessly erasing any other embarrassment from existence; he snuggles up needy and hungry for warmth, and it isn't long before their lips meet and they're lost again, two boys swimming against the current of what will eventually come to an end, determined to make it as far as they possibly can with the time they have left.

There's a knock on the door.

"Blaine?"

His heart jumps at the sound of a male voice. It can't be anyone but Blaine's dad – this can't be happening; he worked through this panic last night and he isn't keen on revisiting that. He's meant to sneak out again without anyone noticing, without either of Blaine's parents being any the wiser about what transpired in this room overnight.

"Are you up?"

Blaine shoots up in the bed, caught in the same panic. "Oh crap."

"Your mom would like to know if your friend's staying for breakfast."

His jaw drops, and they glance at each other, and next thing they both scramble out of the bed picking their clothes off the floor. Had they not fooled Blaine's mom at all last night? They were so careful and so quiet and hadn't done anything too untoward – shit, this is all his fault.

"Blaine?" Blaine's dad calls. _The mayor_ _of Westerville_.

"Uh-" Blaine struggles to get into his shirt, "yeah! He'll stay."

His fingers pause around the button of his shorts. He'll what, now?

"Five minutes," the mayor says, before the shadow visible underneath the door disappears.

"What the hell did you just do?" he wheezes, an invisible hand closing around his throat – oh God, what if Blaine's dad kicks him out? What if he's about to be lectured by his boyfriend's parents about decency and respect and he never sees Blaine again?

"I'm not facing them on my own." Blaine points at him. "This is your mess."

And, okay, _yes_ , it would be weird to simply disappear or sneak out after being caught, and he's far too serious about Blaine to disrespect him or his parents in their own home, but he's also the kid who snuck in to sleep in his boyfriend's bed. How is he going to look Blaine's parents in the eyes? How is he going to explain this? Blaine's mom seemed reasonable, especially if she saw the humor in inviting him down for breakfast, but what if Blaine's dad is anything like his? Can he handle that same sight of disapproval and disappointment on another parent's face?

Blaine's hands cup his face before he's even noticed he moved. "Don't freak out."

"What if they don't like me?"

"I clearly don't tell you this enough." Blaine's eyes narrow, and he's at a loss for what's about to follow that doesn't encompass the phrase _let's run away together and legally change our names to Christian Walker and Jonny Royalle and never return_? "You're the son of a state's attorney who I have wrapped around my finger."

He laughs.

"My dad's going to want you in his pocket."

His hands grab around Blaine's wrists, and, leaning in, he whispers, "You're ridiculous," before dropping a kiss to Blaine's mouth. What's truly ridiculous is how Blaine can put him at ease so effortlessly.

Because it's true; this can't be anything but positive. He worried about similarities between Blaine and Hunter and them sneaking around, but the truth is Hunter would've dropped him in half a heartbeat had his parents ever caught them – Blaine isn't trying to do anything of the sort; in fact, he's encouraging this. It's just that he's never had a positive experience meeting a boy's parents; he met Harry's parents when it was collectively decided for them that they shouldn't see each other for a while, and he never would've met Hunter's, not even under the guise of being his friend.

How could he not be nervous?

Blaine takes him by the hand and leads him out of the room, down a hallway decorated with family photos, some black and white old ones, others as recent as Blaine's high school graduation. There's a wall like this in his house too, with his grandfather's and his dad's army portraits, some of his old school pictures, and rare snaps of family vacations. He considered them there for show, but looking at this wall now, pride may be a better word.

At the bottom of the stairs they come to a large dining room; the table hasn't been set for breakfast, yet he hears the clatter of plates, Blaine's parents talking, and the house smells of fresh coffee and bacon. There's a warmth here he can't attribute to anything he's familiar with, no lies on the walls to reflect a happy family that's anything but, no glimmering sheen on the meticulous surfaces because this house has been lived in, and it's been allowed to show.

With a squeeze to his fingers Blaine pulls him toward the back of the house, to the kitchen, where there's a small round table waiting for them, barely able to seat the four of them since most every square inch is covered in plates and mugs and bowls.

"Here he is, then," Blaine's mom says. Several inches shorter than him he can see who Blaine inherited his height from, as well as his deep hazel eyes and tan skin, not to mention the wild curls. "My son's suitor."

Blaine lovingly rolls his eyes, while he tries to suppress a smile; that's exactly the kind of thing Blaine might call him.

He shuffles back and forth, an insecure little boy again who needs to be led by the hand and told what to do. Somehow he finds some common sense, holds out a hand, and says, "Sebastian Smythe," with a certain amount of dread in his voice.

"Smythe?" Blaine's dad chimes in.

He nods, and clears his throat. "Yes, sir."

"And he has manners, too," Pamela coos, before gesturing at the table. "Sit, sit, sit, before everything gets cold."

By the looks of it an Anderson breakfast comprises whatever their heart desired, from fresh pancakes with syrup to bacon and eggs, warm toast, coffee and fresh orange juice - he's lucky to catch his mom having breakfast now and again, but his most memorable morning meals these past few years all took place at Dalton.

"So, Sebastian," Pamela says, passing the coffee to her husband before she begs, "tell us about yourself," and all of a sudden he can't imagine eating a single thing. His throat closes up. What does he say? He's versed in these kinds of politics at the myriad of his dad's work events, but he's sitting down for breakfast with his _boyfriend's parents_. Would they like him to pretend, to brag about his grade point average, and fake his smiles?

Luckily Pamela prompts, "Where do you go to school?"

"Dalton Academy."

"One of the finest prep schools for miles," Blaine's dad says. "We thought about sending Blaine there."

Blaine grimaces, "Dad decided his alma mater suited me better", a sure sign that his place of schooling is a point of contention between the two Andersons - he can't imagine attending a school where his dad's name might be whispered in the halls, where the same moniker haunted him like it did anywhere else. He also shouldn't imagine what it could've been like meeting Blaine at Dalton, seeing him dressed in that blue blazer with red piping, or how it might've been had they dated there. Would they have been drawn to each other? Would they have snuck around the dorms and stolen time?

"Extracurriculars?" Pamela's voice pulls him from his will-never-be fantasy.

"Glee club, lacrosse, and the swim team," he says, "and I'm a French tutor."

"You speak French?" Blaine asks, and looks at him sideways, eyes wide like it's the strangest thing he's thus far told him, like his mom's name isn't Pamela Anderson or his older brother's isn't Cooper - in their small world of weird, him speaking French fluently shouldn't register on any radar.

"My mom's side of the family is French."

"That explains so much about you." Blaine laughs, and grabs his leg underneath the table, fingers ticking up to the inside of his thigh; he flinches, too aware of every inch of his body, stuck in some kind of slapstick comedy where every moment now his own parents will jump from behind the curtains and join their merry band of four.

He frowns. "Like what?"

"How behind that pale emotionless façade you're really kind of a romantic."

Pamela's eyes shine much like Blaine's do as she regards them both, and it leaves him wondering how his mom would react to seeing the two of them together, if she'd be any if all the same, happy for him and Blaine, marveling at their interaction. She had told him not to waste a single moment, after all.

"And your plans for the future?" Blaine's dad interjects.

Blaine groans. " _Dad_."

"It's a perfectly reasonable question, Blaine."

Quite unplanned, he returns Blaine's gesture and squeezes a hand around his knee, assuring Blaine this isn't a question he minds taking; he's rehearsed this plenty of other times in many different types of situations - he can't even tell the lie from the truth anymore after the amount of times he's spewed the answer.

"I'm hoping to get some kind of business degree," he says, "focused on accounting", which seems to satisfy the mayor's immediate curiosity. Judging by Blaine's small smile he didn't do too terribly, though his boyfriend's eyes show signs of clear surprise - he has a head for business, he's found, in between rounds of Model UN and leading the Warblers to Nationals, and he's good with numbers too. Accounting made sense, for now.

Later, back in the relative safety of Blaine's room, he releases a breath he'd held onto all through breakfast, as if a lifeline to rely on should either of Blaine's parents have decided to steal oxygen the same way his father did. For some reason, Blaine's parents hadn't, and it leaves him to question what choked Blaine, what could be so suffocating that he can't wait to escape.

"Your dad isn't so bad," he remarks as Blaine reemerges from the bathroom having brushed his teeth, and he sinks down onto the bed, watching Blaine's shoulders roll with discomfort.

Blaine nods, and he has no clue whether he agrees or if he's trying to imagine what ever gave him that impression; Blaine's dad seemed strict and set on his son making something of his life, but Mayor Anderson didn't strike him as homophobic. Not overtly, anyway.

"He's- okay with who I am," Blaine says, "He's proud, even."

Then, Blaine casts down his eyes, like he's ashamed, like he's not allowed to say or think what he's about to because he does have a good home and parents who care and accept him - but if everyone was meant to think like that he wouldn't be allowed to complain either, and yet his privileged background leaves him plenty to lament every time he comes back home.

"Sometimes-" Blaine says, and idles closer, "I feel like a political puzzle piece my dad can use to his advantage."

Like Blaine's some prized animal taken out for special occasions, showed off to his father's political partners to represent values he's hoping to use in his reelection campaign. At least Blaine's dad acknowledges his son's sexuality, though that's a thought that sounds far too resentful; no one chooses who their parents are or the way they're born. In an ideal world people like his father wouldn't exist, and boys like him and Blaine would be accepted wherever they went. Sadly, that's not the world they live in.

"As long as I'm here I'll never feel like I can be myself."

He nods. "You'll never be able to breathe."

Blaine smiles and comes over, stepping in between his legs. "I love that you get that," he whispers, raking his hands through his hair, touching dangerously close to a confession neither of them has so far dared to make. However meaningful this summer love has been, what was the point of closing his heart around an 'I love you' if it was going to end? Wasn't this enough, in the short time allotted them, knowing that it was there without having to say it?

Still, bravery aside, he can't help but grab around the back of Blaine's thighs and pull him closer, whispering, "I love that you can talk to me about it."

.

He crosses his arms over his chest, staring at the spot where Sugar disappeared into the treeline, and -near lovingly- shakes his head.

Not half a minute ago she'd announced amidst great fanfare that she'd be leaving without helping them finish their usual chores, like checking for items visitors left on the beach or in the water, because she had far more important matters to attend to that concerned far more important people. Then, she'd thrown her arms around his neck, planted a kiss on his cheek, and once that assault was over slapped him on the ass.

It said something about his growing ease that he let it happen, or perhaps he's taken up Blaine's attitude on the matter; there's little either of them could do to dissuade her, and he can't keep putting energy into something that won't change.

"What do you think it is that attracts straight girls to me?" he asks, looking back at his boyfriend over his shoulder. First Sugar, then Dottie; before he knows they'll be falling for him like dominoes.

"My charm?" He wiggles his eyebrows. "My devilish good looks?"

Blaine cocks an eyebrow, wholly unimpressed. "You know she has a boyfriend."

He huffs. _No_. If Sugar had a boyfriend he would know. If Sugar had a boyfriend she'd rush out of here every night to go see him, like he can't wait to devote his every minute to Blaine. If Sugar had a boyfriend surely she wouldn't devote so much of her time to him or his relationship with Blaine. Or his ass. Not to mention she'd take every opportunity to gush about him.

"Does he know that?" he asks, unironically.

"I'm serious." Blaine laughs. "Andrew, or Aaron, or something. College guy."

"How come we never see him around?"

"He's been here a few times."

Dumbfounded, yet unable to let this go, he simply stares at Blaine in confusion. Hadn't he been by Blaine's and Sugar's side on this beach every single day? Where was he when this alleged college boyfriend visited? In the water? Not that it mattered; relationship or not it hadn't dissuaded Sugar from assaulting him, so why -for the love of everything that was holy- is he choosing to care about this?

As if reading his mind, Blaine wanders over a few steps, and says, "You make for a very cute but easy target."

"Careful, Anderson," -he smirks- "or I'll show you just how easy I can be."

After all the time they've spent together he's none too sure how Blaine still manages it, how he turns into that shy schoolboy who faces away with a smile, conjures the blush in his cheeks as if by magic – yet it's wholly enchanting.

"Remember the rules," Blaine cautions, before that infamous index finger rises between them, and backs a few steps away as if he'd actually fight him off should he try anything. Which -the thought of Blaine wrestling him- isn't altogether uninteresting, especially if it involved some kind of rubbing together.

He retrieves his phone from the pocket of his shorts and checks the time, pleasantly surprised to see the clock pointing in his favor. "I believe" -he idles a step closer in the sand- "we've entered that part of our day that" -he taps at his chin for emphasis- "How did you put it? _Falls outside your purview_?"

At that, Blaine playfully bites at his lip-

-and spins on his heels, sprinting down the beach to get away from him.

A smile curls around his mouth, and he shakes his head. What did he ever do in a previous life to be heaped with this man-child? He must've been a goddamn saint.

Without giving it a second thought he sets off after Blaine, the sand hindering his speed despite the advantage his longer legs should give him, and he nearly keels over a few times because he neglects to find the right balance. It's silly and childlike, and it harkens back to days where little else mattered but playing outside and getting dirty, which, if he thinks about it, is a feeling he recaptures every moment he spends with Blaine, even those times in between the sheets and he kisses down Blaine's chest, doing things to Blaine no small boy should have to think about yet. This is what love's meant to feel like, he catches himself thinking, fun and surprising and somewhat unpredictable, caught in the waves of a force indecipherable in any modern language.

They chase each other around the beach for a good two minutes, before -he assumes- Blaine simply gives up and lets him tackle him to the ground, both of them out of breath but lost in laughter. Grains of sand slip in everywhere as they wrestle; their shirts and shorts and hair, sticking to their skin where they hadn't yet washed away any sunscreen, and he's laughing so hard his stomach hurts, so wide all Blaine kisses is teeth at first, before a far less boyish sentiment takes over.

His lips close over Blaine's, and any playful struggle melts from their bones like ice in a firestorm, which is nothing short of what he feels for Blaine; sometimes it's like he really is on fire, like his heart's beating up such a storm it'll burn right through his ribcage, starting a raging infection around that 'I love you' trapped inside his heart. Blaine moans against his lips and his hips jerk up, so he pulls back.

"You shouldn't start what you can't finish, Smythe," Blaine teases to his lips, as if he weren't the one who'd run off; they could have finished this in the cabin with some relative privacy, drawn it out and driven each other crazy before reaching their climax, yet here they are covered in sand, sticky with sweat, still breathless.

"I know I'm the son of a state's attorney." He cocks an eyebrow, "but getting arrested for public indecency seems beneath me."

Blaine snorts. "I doubt 'sex on the beach' is as fun as the song implies, anyway. I'm going to find sand in a lot of strange places later."

His fingers tickle down Blaine's side, making him squirm. "I can help you out with those."

"Oh" –Blaine giggles– "I'm sure you can."

He steals another simmering kiss from Blaine's lips, forcing himself to slow down, before he gives over to this whole wide universe inside him Blaine proved real – he's never withheld any physicality, nor has he ever been ashamed of his body, but there's a freedom being with Blaine supplies he never realized he missed out on, and as he settles by Blaine's side in the sand, staring up at the darkening sky, he thinks he never wants to give that up again. Not for anyone. Not for a dozen extra summers.

"Do you think-" Blaine says, but the words catch somewhere in the breeze and the sound of the water lapping at the shore. When he turns his head and looks at Blaine, his boyfriend's lost in thought, but not any thought in the here and now – his gaze has set far-off and wandering, worrisome even, where the tiniest frown knitted his eyebrows closer together.

"What?" he asks softly, and kisses Blaine's temple, selfishly trying to draw Blaine back to him.

But Blaine shakes his head, "Never mind," and he makes no further attempt at learning what's playing inside Blaine's mind.

.

It's the incessant ring of his phone that wakes him up the next morning, rather than the dulcet sounds of some _X Ambassadors_ song he once found clicking through on Youtube, and it can only mean one thing. He switched his phone to Do Not Disturb last night and the sole calls that can make it through that technological wonder are repeat ones.

Still, he takes long enough to turn and stretch for the call to go to voicemail, so by the time he finally reaches his phone he can see the damage far outstretches the one call he missed.

Five missed calls. All from Sugar.

Three texts from Sugar, one from Quinn.

Two twitter PMs from Sugar.

Fifteen Whatsapp notifications from Sugar.

What the hell happened? Did someone die?

In his half-awake state it takes but half a second for that throwaway thought to fester and his heart rate to spike, realizing in that moment none of the messages came from Blaine. Did something happen to Blaine? As he swiftly scrolls through his notifications most of Sugar's messages include the word 'pictures' or 'oh God', and Quinn's message simply reads, 'Shit. I'm so sorry, you guys.'

Sorry? Sorry about what?

His phone starts vibrating with another call from Sugar, one he answers immediately.

"Sugar, what the hell is going on?"

"You haven't seen?" Sugar squeaks.

"Seen what?" He sits up and draws a hand down his face, unsuccessfully coming to his senses. For a split half second he fears Sugar called just to tell him she broke a nail or something, but if that were the case Quinn wouldn't have texted him too. "Sugar, I just woke up, _what the hell_?"

"Oh my God, turn on your computer. You and Blaine are front page on ThisWeek."

"What?"

Knocked awake in an instant he rushes over to his desk and clicks his laptop out of sleep mode, navigating to ThisWeek's online community webpage. Why would he and Blaine be on there? When had anyone had the opportunity to take pictures of them? What did it even matter if they had?

But it soon becomes apparent why; right there, beneath a title that read 'Westerville News and Public Opinion', placed slightly to the left, was a picture of him and Blaine, kissing on the beach, just last night.

His mouth goes dry.

"It doesn't quite capture your hotness," Sugar's voice sounds through his phone, left abandoned next to his laptop, drowning under a tidal wave of panic that buzzes in his ears.

He clicks on the picture, which reveals far too many others of them in far more compromising positions; the first few pictures shows them chasing each other on the beach, then him tackling Blaine and landing on top, then Blaine's legs wound around his waist while they made out on the sand – he hadn't realized Blaine had done it, too lost in all the sensations, too used to Blaine's legs around him, too unaware of his surroundings whenever he's with his boyfriend.

And it was innocent; after their stargazing on the beach they headed to Blaine's house and showered and got up to all kinds of untoward behavior that should remain private, but seeing their dalliance on the beach in pictures like this, more than one person might get the wrong idea. Others might not see two boys hopelessly in love, but rather two horny teenagers publicly grinding up against each other.

"Sebastian, are you there?" Sugar asks, while his eyes fall to the title below the pictures – _Mayor's Son and Mystery Man: Summer Fling or True Love?_ – and that hits him where it hurts the most, where it can wreak havoc and do the most damage.

That word, summer fling, that's what he labeled his early fantasies of luring Blaine into his bed, and even though that lasted about three point five seconds, even though they're both all too aware their relationship has blossomed into something far more meaningful, that's not what it'll look like to other people. Like his father. Like Blaine's parents. Like an entire community that's already started judging them in the comment section below the opinion piece.

How had this happened? Who'd hung around in the woods long enough to catch them like this and gone through the trouble of documenting it? Because the only reason anyone would was to create unnecessary scandal, needless gossip to feed the hungry masses who were constantly waiting for one of their heroes to fall. Waiting for that all-American boy, son of the mayor of Westerville, to get knocked off his pedestal simply for loving another boy. None of this would undo any of Blaine's good deeds, but people wouldn't look at him the same way.

"I'll see you at work," Sugar voices last but not least, and hangs up a few moments later to leave him to stew in his own thoughts.

And, not too surprising, his first thought is Hunter. This is the kind of thing Hunter feared, for reasons not applicable to his and Blaine's situation, but it hits close enough to a nerve still sensitive enough to send his mind reeling.

He's partly responsible for this – Blaine liked his reputation, he said as much, and taking a job as a lifeguard was his way of escaping it, of being Blaine and not _the son of_ , and now that's all gotten hopelessly blurred. If he hadn't-

No. How did that make any sense? He hadn't forced Blaine to fall in love, nor had he any control over his own feelings. Maybe they'd been a little careless but there's no shame in what they did, in falling in love, in spending time together and having fun, and the only person at fault is the sick pervert who took the pictures and probably made a pretty dime selling them to the press.

Who would do this?

Helplessly grabbing for his phone he dials Blaine's number, tears coming to his eyes thinking about all the things Blaine must be experiencing right now; despair, humiliation, anger, and just... sadness. This is sad, because what they have is nothing short of beautiful, and now it's tainted by someone else's palm prints.

The dial tone rings, and rings, and rings, until the call goes to voicemail.

It's ten in the morning, far past the Andersons' breakfast routine and Blaine's own start of the day; why hadn't Blaine called? Or texted? Why couldn't he reach him?

He redials Blaine's number, thinking maybe Blaine's phone isn't within immediate reach, but it goes to voicemail again.

And again.

And again.

He closes his laptop still seeing the pictures flash before his eyes, and wonders what Blaine's wake-up call had been like this morning. Had it been Sugar too? Quinn? Or his father banging on his door, demanding an explanation as to why his son would be caught in such a compromising position by a wannabe paparazzo.

Was Blaine not picking up his phone because he was trapped in a room somewhere, being lectured on proper manners and how to behave like a mayor's son in public, and how that didn't include having sex with his boyfriend on the beach?

Should they even go into work today? How many of the visitors would know? How many of them would've read the article and silently judged them?

He clutches at his abdomen, sick to his stomach.

Summer's drawing to an end but this isn't how it was meant to go; they were meant to say goodbye along the shores of their summer romance, the setting sun a stunning red and orange as it sank below the horizon, and then kiss one last time, one final kiss imbued with all the promises of an uncertain future.

These pictures can't destroy that.

He won't let them.

He gets dressed in a blind rush and grabs his things together, intent on driving to Blaine's house to talk, or face whatever consequences with him; they're in this together no matter what happens and they'll see this through together too. He rushes down the stairs but stops dead in his tracks at the bottom, coming face to face with his father, who's never looked more furious in his life. It's one thing to have a gay son and have certain people know it, but to see it smeared out online with picture evidence must be one hit too many for his father's fragile ego to take.

"Dad-" he starts, and licks his lips, without any clue of where he's going with it; he shouldn't have to apologize for what wasn't his fault, and he'll never apologize for being a teenager who's in love, who expects a parent's support at a time like this.

His dad spares him the rest of the awkward silence. "This won't stand, Sebastian."

Yeah. Sure. Why would today be any different than the countless of times he's seen his father's office door close behind him, as sure a sign of disappointment as the look on his face. A closed door. Wordless judgment. General indifference toward anything else he does.

But what comes out of his father's mouth next comes so fast and so unexpected all he manages is go a little slack-jawed.

"You boys are underage" –His father points at him the way he points at other lawyers, the finger that signals someone's going to get in trouble and his father will damn well make sure of it. Then, he wags the same finger at his mother- "Whoever took those pictures is getting sued to the full extent of the law, and whoever posted them-"

His dad turns red in the face. "I'll have their jobs."

For a few moments he stands, blinking, his father's righteous anger the closest they've ever been to being on the same page and it's- comforting. Somehow. Somewhat. It doesn't bridge the space between them, nor does it undo all the irreparable damage done, but it's common ground they haven't shared since he was a little boy.

Then, his father does head to his office, leaving the door ajar as he starts making calls.

"I guess he saw the pictures." He sighs, and turns to his mother, overcome with emotion again; he'd prepared for inevitable heartbreak a week and a half from now, when Blaine left for college, but he hadn't braced for this, the sudden impact of some fairytale summer love undone, brought down to the harsh and cruel reality that didn't have a straight narrative starting with 'once upon a time' and ending with 'happily ever after.'

"Hey," his mom hushes, and draws closer, stroking a hand through his hair. "Blaine makes you happy."

He nods; it's a statement, not a question, a foregone conclusion, because she's the only one in his immediate vicinity that ever cared to look at his life closely enough to divine anything about it. How has he managed all this time on his own? Was it Smythe pride that got in the way? Stubbornness? All he knows is being with Blaine isn't lonely, and he can't figure out when he decided that's what he was. Lonely. Alone. Abandoned.

"That's all that matters."

When he throws his arms around his mom he's a kid again and doesn't care; he's her kid and he always will be and the very last thing he should apologize for is finding comfort in his mother's arms.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Everything will be okay."

Then, they talk. Just like they used to.

His mom makes him some coffee and a small breakfast that might as well serve as lunch too, and he tells her about what's been going on in his life. He talks about Hunter and going around in secret, about falling in love against his better judgment, and the unavoidable break-up that did a far greater number on him that he ever admitted.

He tells her he's accepted at Dalton, as one of the guys, and that's more to do with the people he's surrounded with than any zero-tolerance policy a school could implement; he's an attacker on the field, he's a Dalton Warbler, he's the fastest swimmer coach has ever seen, and he's a friend, a buddy, a tutor for many who have a hard time keeping up with Mr. Spinoy's French classes. He's _someone_ at Dalton, but whenever he comes home, whenever he's under his father's scrutiny, he becomes someone less than that. It isn't fair, because his mom doesn't do him those same discourtesies, but somewhere in their lack of communication his avoidance of home started including her too – he didn't think he ever meant for that to happen.

But this summer, _this summer_ , by some stroke of fate, or karma he'd collected in previous lives, he met Blaine. It'd started as nothing more than a fantasy, with some teasing and more than a little flirtation on the side, and God, had that boy made him work for it, but all of a sudden Blaine liked him back, Blaine wanted him too, Blaine understood what he went through and what he suffered, and what he wanted beyond all this.

"... and it's just- good." He shrugs, his long rant coming to an end, "It's good, and it's real, and he's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Nodding, his mom grabs his hand and holds it tight, fighting back tears as she sniffles, "I'm so happy for you, honey," without passing any further judgment, without going toe-to-toe with him on some of the finer points of his story; she simply sits and listens, and accepts.

It bridges the distance between them, and it undoes a lot of the damage done, from both his and her side. It's good, too, and he's grateful they've found time this summer to reconnect.

"I have to get to work," he says, and checks his phone. Still no messages from Blaine. "Talk to Blaine."

If he doesn't talk to Blaine he'll go stir crazy, he'll fall back into thoughts of Hunter and draw parallels and that's not what he and Blaine are – they're not a secret, they're not each other's playthings, and they won't drop each other because someone better comes around.

He walks his mug and plate over to the sink, biting at his lip.

"Mom?"

His mom looks up.

"We should do this again."

The tears in his mom's eyes somehow make her smile even brighter. "I'd like that."

It's near noon before he reaches the beach, and Quinn rushes over to hug him, apologizing once again for the sick bastard that'd stood taking pictures in the woods.

"I can't imagine who would do such a thing."

"Have you heard from Blaine at all?" he asks, his more immediate worry, but Quinn shakes her head, and next thing Sugar winds around his arm like a needy and jealous kitten, and he undergoes it all with his mind elsewhere. Would Blaine be coming in at all? Should he have gone over to the Andersons after all and try to catch him there?

Right before nausea can start stirring at the pit of his stomach again, Blaine comes running out of the forest, headed in a straight line for him, and like Quinn, he throws his arms around him.

He's never felt more relieved in his entire life.

"Sorry I couldn't talk," Blaine says. "I was in with my dad's PR rep."

"Shit." He grabs helplessly around Blaine's waist. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Blaine pulls back a few inches, skips forward to the tips of his toes and plants a kiss to his lips, before sinking back down again. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Well. He frowns, and catches Sugar's sideway glance, the same confusion reflected in her eyes. Why wouldn't he be? Maybe because ThisWeek has half a million readers who'd all have at least gleaned at the front-page picture throughout the course of the morning, and all know what they'd been up to on this very beach just last night? Wasn't that what Blaine discussed in minute detail with his dad's PR rep?

Blaine draws a hand down his arm. "We should get to work," he says, and hurries inside the cabin to change.

"Did he have a stroke or something?" Sugar asks, and, honestly, did he?

Blaine can't be okay with this, and he can't _not_ want to talk about this. Even if the pictures didn't matter and they can leave the whole incident behind them they should at least discuss it. He's dying to tell Blaine about what his dad said and dying to know what Blaine's had, and what the mayor's PR rep had to do with it. Weren't they in a place where they could talk about these things?

Oxygen grows sparse again, thin and hard to filter through the thick ozone of summer; had this been a final straw for Blaine's dad? Loving and accepting, but to a certain degree?

Blaine passes them both on his way to the beach, and once Quinn's relieved from her position she throws him the same questioning glances Sugar had. What was going on? Would Blaine just ignore this?

With little else to do but follow suit, he and Sugar change into their lifeguard gear too, starting their shift as if the world hadn't turned somewhat upside down.

But the six hours that follow are as routine as ever; he takes to the water and swims back and forth between the shore and the swim platforms drifting in the water, while Blaine observes the beach from his position in the lifeguard chair. Sugar traipses up and down the waterline, and after two hours of that they rotate positions. Like always. Like it's any other day.

It's not any other day to him. He can't find his focus; not in the water, not in the chair, and not on the beach. All he can see is Blaine and him sunk to the sand and someone watching them from afar, hoping to catch them in some seedy act he can immortalize on the Internet. His eyes keep drawing through the treeline flanking the beach, thinking he'll find the culprit still there, but naturally, there are merely the usual comings and goings of other tourists.

Six hours draw to an end, eventually, and his shoulders have grown sore with the way he's been holding them, his chest aches and gone hollow, and he thinks if there had been an emergency, had the Dottie incident happened today and not several weeks ago, he wouldn't have been in control of the situation. He's not his best, because Blaine's acting like he is; he winks at the familiar faces leaving the beach with that million dollar smile of his, and disappears into the cabin to change after the coast has cleared.

Defeat washes over him, and an odd mixture of anger, anguish and dread. He has no idea what's going to happen.

After Blaine's cavalier responses a few hours ago even Sugar has taken notice of the tension, and leaves without her usual flair for invading his private space; she kisses his cheek sweetly, and urges him to talk to Blaine.

He'll admit, he's grown to love her by no small degree.

Dreading every step, he wanders back to the cabin, where Blaine's shrugged into his bright red hoodie, looking as tired and haggard as he feels.

"Can we talk now?" he asks carefully, and worries his bottom lip between his teeth, something he doesn't normally do. When it comes to Blaine, though, he doesn't want to mess up, or allow either of them to mess up because they don't talk, and that all turned so grave and serious so quickly it keeps adding to the anxiety crawling under his skin. Will he be saying goodbye to Blaine tonight?

Blaine's eyes travel down his body, and he nods solemnly. "You bring any smokes?"

It brings back the fluttery memory of lying on his bed with Blaine in his arms, and those gorgeous lips kissed swollen making a fear filled confession about being crazy about him; it dots at least some hope over the bleak outlook of the conversation they're about to have.

He retrieves a joint from his locker, and finds Blaine again right where the incriminating pictures were taken, as if tempting fate even further.

His breathing deepens, weighed down more than anything by his love for Blaine and all he's come to mean to him. That can't all just... go away.

"Here."

He hands Blaine the joint and a lighter, and sits down next to him in the sand, their bodies an inch too far apart to be touching. It's cold and lonely, which isn't anything he's felt in Blaine's presence before.

He brings his knees to his chest, and watches Blaine twirl the joint between his fingers a few times, until his breathing changes, until he's drawing up gulps of oxygen that stretch deeper and deeper inside his lungs, like he's holding back tears – and he feels them push at the back of his own eyes.

"Did-" He swallows hard, not expecting he'd be the first one to talk, but in the face of losing Blaine he has no desire of being at the end of the stick – better to go for the short pain, rip off the band-aid, rub over the sore spot, move on.

Move on.

Like that's at all still possible.

"Did your dad tell you to break up with me?"

"What?" comes a burst of laughter, too sudden and incredulous. "Why would he do that?"

He turns his head, confused as to whether or not they're at all on the same page. Isn't the mayor the reason Blaine's been acting strange, why all those messages this morning were all so urgent and sympathetic? Why they're here, talking, now?

Then, realization dawns in Blaine's eyes.

"Sebastian" –Blaine shakes his head, dropping his legs sideways in the sand and scooting closer, which adds to his confusion by bounding leaps, because Blaine wouldn't pull closer if he didn't mean to stay there- "Our dads were on the phone all morning making sure the pictures were taken down. They were _furious_ , but not at us."

He laughs a bit sad. Both their fathers fighting for their rights; who knew they'd see the day.

"PR wanted me to make a statement," Blaine says, "and all I had was 'I'm in love.'"

For a brief moment he closes his eyes, letting the liberating words wash over him like soothing ocean waves. They're still on the same page. They're still in this together.

One of Blaine's hands curls around his neck. "I don't give a shit about those pictures. I'm done letting other people make my decisions for me, remember? And that includes deciding what I'm allowed to feel shitty about."

"It's just- you've been quiet." He lets his fingers wander to the nape of Blaine's neck, where he starts drawing circles around his birthmark. "I thought-"

Sadly, this does make Blaine pull back, which brings back his anxiety tenfold between two of his heartbeats. Was there something else he'd missed, that look Blaine had in his eyes last night wandered too far?

"I know, I'm sorry." Blaine says and casts down his eyes, "It's nothing to do with the pictures."

"Hey." His hand curls around Blaine neck in turn. "Talk to me."

But Blaine shakes his head and pulls back further, even goes as far as standing up and pacing a few steps away from him, the tips of his fingers to his lips, then his hands settling at his hips, words he doesn't know how to say dying in the late evening breeze. Blaine's eyes show bright white lights in his irises, a sure sign of how difficult it is for him to talk about whatever's about to follow.

"I got some letters from Columbia today. Dorm assignments."

Of course. Another week and a half and their summer of love comes to an end, and it freaked Blaine out staring it in the face. He'd have reacted no different. His heart's long since healed around that 'I love you'; scar-less, whole, and lasting.

"And-" Blaine huffs, "I really don't want to think about college."

He stands up, dusting the sand of his shorts. "I don't mind if you-"

"I'm thinking of not going," Blaine blurts out.

"What?"

He looks at Blaine, and Blaine looks at him, and the silence that follows betrays all the risks Blaine's about to invoke, the confessions he's about to summon, all the things they both feel and haven't said for fear of destroying what they have. Or, maybe, they haven't said it because that would make it real, root it in the real world where they'll have to figure out so much more than where to go from here. Who are they dependent or independent of each other? What does each of them want from the future? Where do they go from here?

"I could stay," Blaine's voice softens, and it cracks at the same time, both of them all too aware of Blaine's hopes and dreams, his chance at escape and his need to unfold beyond the limits of what Westerville set - and now this new idea, this new possibility branching off into a path Blaine never considered before.

His heart constricts around the idea, of Blaine staying, of Blaine right here, but he's off to school again all the same once the summer's over. He sighs, "Blaine-"

"I could take a year off" -Blaine's eyes light with tears- "get a job."

"You can't," he breathes, and stumbles a step forward, means to draw so close there isn't a single molecule of space left between their bodies but finds he can't. Because Blaine can't stay. Because neither of them could were they the same age and in the same position. There's too much out there and too many opportunities within their grasp to let it all slip through their fingers.

"Why not?"

"You have a ticket out of here," he says, however hard it may be. "You have to take it."

"But-" Blaine stutters, and a sob escapes his lips. "What about-"

What about them? What about this wonderful relationship the past few weeks have solidified into something real and lasting and – god damn it, he promised Blaine this wouldn't hurt; he promised himself it wouldn't hurt, that it didn't have to, but here they are talking about what's real, about what matters. About a future.

"Look," –he draws in a deep breath, hands at his hips, and tries to be as truthful as possible; he owes Blaine that much– "I'm not going to stand here and tell you I love the idea of you five hundred miles away meeting other pale douchebags."

Blaine hiccups a laugh, while tears stream down his face; he's beautiful even like this, even when he's causing him so much pain, but he won't have this. He can't have this; if Blaine stays he'll end up resenting him.

"But I won't be responsible for you getting stuck here."

Blaine cries, "But I love you."

His feet kick off in the sand before the words even reach Blaine's lips, before he's at all sure they should tie this knot when the future's so incredibly uncertain, but he kisses Blaine, eyes wide open, hands on his face, the outlines where his heart meets Blaine's an aching burn.

"I love you too," he whispers, and kisses the corner of Blaine's mouth, his cheek and cheekbone, down his neck until they tangle together in a hug. He hasn't said it, neither of them have, they haven't dared to tempt fate by imagining a future beyond the summer, beyond the next season, beyond anything that's not the here and now. It'd seemed too dangerous, too fickle, too naïve perhaps for a sixteen-year-old and a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old to envision.

Soon he'll be back at Dalton, falling into the same old routines amongst familiar faces, a home far more a home than the one he has here, and Blaine – he'll leave for New York to start a new adventure, to meet new people and learn new things, be everything he can't be here as _the son of_.

"Blaine," he mutters into his boyfriend's shoulder, and it hurts him to the bone to know this, but the drive to separate from this stifling town lives inside him too; he's dreamed of a future after this, after high school, after the quiet of bending to his father's wishes, and even though that's still another year away for him, he can't let Blaine get stuck here any more than he already has, "you know you have to go."

Blaine whines and tightens his hold on him, but the embrace doesn't betray any disagreement, nor resentment. There's no sense in denying it; they want the same things and they want each other, but for now they can't have both at the same time.

"Besides" –he sniffles, fighting tears too– "can you imagine what dating a college boy will do for my street cred?"

Blaine laughs into his shoulder.

To be honest, he's not sure he'll tell anyone but a select few; maybe his closest friends Wes and Jeff, Nick maybe, but he's not close enough to any of his other classmates or fellow Warblers to share the intimate details of his summer escapades. Not that it matters; sharing the memories won't change them, it won't lessen their importance or add to their meaning - he likes that this is his and his alone, and every call or email he'll exchange with Blaine won't be scrutinized by anyone but him.

He closes his eyes and holds Blaine tight, knowing all too well he's thinking of a whole other future, one that includes Blaine in every tomorrow yet to come.

.

Their last day at work is uncharacteristically calm, the beach filled with but a handful of families, and children far more tolerable than the ones they'd dealt with so far. There's no Dottie in sight for the first time in three weeks, which makes him picture her in a Dalton-type uniform, trying it on to make sure it still fits after three months of summer, that there are no repairs to be made or stubborn stains left to take out, and making a prim checklist for the start of school. _High school_ won't start for another three weeks, and he isn't expected back at Dalton for another two, so he's not too pressed for time yet.

He plans on enjoying every single minute he has left with Blaine to its full extent, each second, millisecond, and whatever's smaller than that.

"I sure am going to miss all this," Sugar announces right before the start of their shift, plunking down next to Blaine on the plastic picnic table, while he's seated between Blaine's legs so he can apply sunscreen to his back and shoulders.

"I'm not." He huffs, even though he thinks back nostalgically to his first day here, and Blaine's first words to him, and how he'd probably been hopelessly hooked the moment they met. Knowing what he knows now, he wouldn't have done anything differently.

"You're not?"

"The screaming children" –he grimaces– "straight people, old people, happy families."

Blaine tugs at his hair. "Is there anyone you do actually like?"

Smiling, he tips his head back, begging a kiss before whispering, "I like you."

It's a bit of a weird angle, but the puff of Blaine's smile against his lips encourages him, and his tongue darts out to deepen the kiss, to draw Blaine closer and excavate the caverns of his heart yet unexplored. This past week has felt like a honeymoon, celebrating what their 'I love you's solidified a few days ago, like they'd fallen in love all over again even if it wasn't that long ago they did that for the first time. He's been over at the Andersons for breakfast two more times, after diligently sleeping in his own bed, but they'd snuck off to that bed often enough to make up for the time apart; he'd sacrificed sleeping in to spend time with Blaine, every waking moment, and he didn't want for anything else.

Next to them, Sugar sighs dramatically loud, but makes no move to leave, or to stop them.

That night, all six of them go out for drinks, like they have a few times before, only now they don't have to worry about hangovers that last the weekend and might affect work – and they let go of any inhibitions they might've held onto out of courtesy to others. Blaine's on the dance floor ten minutes after they arrive, dancing with Quinn, Kitty and Sugar, and of course he's dragged along not long after.

He decides to let Sugar have this one night, to fawn all over him and Blaine, to demand some of his attention for herself, but once _Slow Hands_ comes on he's all Blaine's and Blaine's all his, slow grinding to the seductive song until they're both dizzy with want, and they flee to the relative safety of his car to get worked up some more.

"Sebastian," Blaine breathes, all hands and teeth grazing behind his ear, and the needy little grunt at the back of his throat makes taking his clothes off all the more urgent. Blaine's knees rise and wind around his waist, even as he's slowly opening him up, the heat in the small cabin rising incrementally, even though they'd had to foresight of cracking open a window.

His tongue licks Blaine's lips apart and he eases inside Blaine in such a way that it maximizes both their pleasure, shudders rippling through the all too willing body beneath him. His thrusts come slow and paced like the song, and they clutch at each other like it's their first and last time, breathe hard and erratic and moan each other's names.

He comes inside Blaine and rises over him, drops of sweat dripping unceremoniously down his temples.

He wants this boy, heart and soul, and he should tell him that before it's too late.

.

And then it arrives, a day he's been ignoring and dreading at the same time, which had seemed both far away and close-by with all the lifetimes they've tried to fit in.

Blaine's final day in Westerville.

He doesn't join the Andersons for breakfast; he figured since they're saying goodbye too he shouldn't intrude on their final breakfast as a family together. Instead they'd agreed to meet up at the park, where Blaine promised to show him a section he hadn't seen before, though that wouldn't be a stretch. He hasn't bothered with a lot of other places besides the beach, the parking lot, and one of the campfires.

"Hey, handsome," a voice sounds behind him.

He grins, and turns. "Who me?" he asks, feigning shock.

"I like your flip-flops."

He laughs and kisses Blaine, his boyfriend's giggles trapped inside his lungs, before Blaine takes him by the hand and leads the way into the park; their fingers intertwine like they've learned to do, and he's long since stopped feeling like a kid unaccustomed to this kind of situation. Now, he knows what to expect, even though coming to a part of the beach visitors aren't allowed wasn't on his immediate list of potential spots to spend the day.

"You are a much bigger rule-breaker than you let on, Anderson."

"Can't give away all my secrets." Blaine shrugs, and winks. "How else would I keep you interested?"

He can see why this small patch of beach isn't accessible to the general public; it's separated from the one they've spent their summer by a patch of pines that trailed off into the water, so it can't be covered by any lifeguards, and it isn't big enough for a great many guests – transforming it into another tourist attraction probably wasn't worth the money.

But it's theirs for the day.

"It's perfect."

His eyes meet Blaine's and they share smile; a perfect place for their perfect last day.

They stretch towels out on the sand and strip down to their swim shorts, taking turns rubbing sun screen all over each other; he leaves a kiss on Blaine's clean skin before applying each stroke, and when they're face-to-face, attempting to spread sunscreen on the other's chest, all they do is kiss, hard and slow and silly.

Once they settle in the sand he grabs his backpack and retrieves a camera, intent on immortalizing this final day together. There are a few selfies of them on Blaine's phone, some on his, but he wants real ones, to evoke and trap the sense of summer.

"What are you doing?" Blaine protests at the sight of the camera, placing a hand between his face and the camera the moment he raises it over his eyes.

"For my locker, killer."

"Dalton doesn't have lockers."

"Okay, you caught me." He rolls his eyes, placing a hand over his heart. "It's so I can keep a picture of you on my bedside table."

"Inside it, you mean."

He chuckles as he catches Blaine's more racy meaning. "Another deeply offensive assumption," he tuts, and sets the camera aside, making a grab for Blaine – Blaine anticipates the move and leaps out of reach with a very manly squeal, and then he's chasing him down the beach again, right into the water, and they're splashing around like two kids who've never seen water before, never felt it slip between their fingers or tasted it on their lips.

Much of their day proceeds exactly like that.

They swim and they kiss, they read and they kiss, they reapply sunscreen and kiss.

Blaine peels them oranges that scent the air with citrus for minutes, and the taste of Blaine's mouth is no different. He takes a few pictures, he gets his pictures taken, and they lay sunbathing side by side.

Somewhere around noon Blaine lays his head down in his lap while he reads, and he can't escape the irony of it all: for years now Westerville has been a town he loathed coming back to, to a disapproving father and overbearing mother, long summers on his own drowning in bed and books and television, but if this summer's proved anything it's that he never paid close enough attention. There are things right here worth looking at, worth looking _for_ , and he has an ally at home who'll be there for him no matter what.

He's had his eye on the far horizon for such a long time he never once considered that all he ever wanted could be right underneath his nose.

Quite literally, right in that moment.

"What's on your mind?"

"Nothing." He shrugs, and truly means it; he's at rest and in the moment, his innate restlessness gone when he's with Blaine. "Nothing but this beach, and the water, and" –he looks down– "You."

Blaine reaches up and taps at his nose. "Who knew you were such a sap."

"Your fault," he whispers, and leans down for a kiss.

Heat slowly leaves their skin as the day gives way to the early evening dusk, and he watches with some fascination as Blaine shrugs into a thick blue sweater he can't wait to wrap his arms around. The sky paints itself in deep brush strokes of blues and oranges, and the deepest red he's thus far seen, but they leave that behind for the stars, to return to an old haunt.

That clearing where they shared their first kiss.

He helps Blaine gather firewood, being generally unhelpful and slowing down the process, but his boy scout manages to get a fire started.

Like so many weeks ago, Blaine settles in his arms, and they gaze up at the stars together, wishing on each falling one. He wishes for another day, two, three, another week or month, but mostly he wishes their dreams can come true; that they'll make their way out of here and find their own place in the world. Only now his place has taken shape right next to Blaine.

"Let's say goodbye here," Blaine blurts out somewhere in his reverie, and it snaps him out of his; this was their last day together, no doubt about it, but he hadn't thought all the way to the physical goodbye yet.

"Tomorrow, with my parents" –Blaine shakes his head- "My mom will cry, it'll be a mess. I want to remember you right here."

A smile curls around his lips, along with a thought he'd filed away as whimsy up until a week ago; softly, pushing his lips to Blaine's hair, he whispers, "What if we don't say goodbye?"

Crickets chirp in the grass, and an owl or two hoots above them, the sounds of the forest the sole company to the silence Blaine allows to stretch between them, as if to check he heard correctly. He brings his nose to Blaine's hair and breathes in, the scent of strawberries and the afterburn of firewood enveloping his ease with that silence.

Blaine shifts in his arms, his eyes alight with tiny flames. "You really mean that?"

"We could try." He reaches for Blaine's hand, dotting their fingertips together. "I know long distance isn't everything, but-"

It could work. He has to say it at least once, let Blaine know that even though this summer's ending he'd still go all-in, all the way, and there are phones and Skype and frequent flyer miles; he could go and see Blaine at college over the weekend and discover New York, and- well, they could make it work.

This time, the silence draws out long enough for it to grow stale, or hopeful maybe, or hopelessly fantastical, because it's real and it's out there; whatever they have doesn't have to end here near the fire, not the beach, nor Westerville itself. It can stretch borders, cities, countries even, and whatever their clumsy fingers choose to reach around.

"We could try," Blaine echoes after seconds have long since spun into minutes and he's turned completely, sitting nestled in his lap.

"Yeah," he breathes, and bumps their noses together, before they sink into their first and last kiss, colored in the spectrum of summer but bathed in the promise of the ochers, cinnamon and burnt reds of fall. His tongue runs along Blaine's upper lip, and he giggles, the two of them dissolving into a mess of lips and tangled limbs.

Now, with the sun setting on what's undoubtedly been the best summer of his life he's reminded how it'd risen, over a summer he thought would merely serve to take him away from an oppressive home, but everything between has been so completely theirs and no one else's –maybe Sugar's, a little, but that wasn't through any fault of their own– that the sun will set with both of them knowing that every minute spent in each other's company was worth it, that they made it count - and it doesn't have to end here.

The sun will rise again, tomorrow.

.

 **fin**

.


End file.
